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Title: The Buln-Buln and the Brolga
Author: Joseph Furphy
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0606841.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
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The Buln-Buln and the Brolga
Joseph Furphy



FOREWORD

LIKE Rigby's Romance, The Buln-buln and the Brolga originally formed a
chapter of Such is Life, and was detached with it to reduce the length
of that book. Furphy at first planned to join these portions together
as the basis of another novel. "The two segregated chapters," he wrote
to his friend Cathels on 14 May 1901, "will go far to compose a second
book. They will include my ideal liar in his full integrity, his wife,
Barefooted Bob, and Jeff Rigby the agitator, also the whole scene at
the fishing meeting. Two stories, in fact, loosely federated, The Lyre
Bird and Rigby's Romance." By 18 October, however, he had decided to
separate these and work on the "remodelling and elaboration" of each.

Rigby's Romance was finished first, and published serially in 1905-6.
Furphy then gave his attention to the other story. On 20 June 1905 he
wrote that he was "intermittently busy in revising, and re-writing,
and largely altering, one of my old neglected yarns, entitled 'The
Lyre Bird and the Native Companion'. The N.C. is Barefooted Bob of
'S.I.L', and the L.B., of course, is a fearful and wonderful liar." Bob,
who appears in Chapter V of Such is Life, has now been elaborated to
such an extent that he shares the title of the book with "The Lyre
Bird", Fred Falkland-Pritchard, of whom, apparently, no trace remains
in Such is Life.

In his title, Furphy finally chose to substitute the aboriginal names
of the two birds which had provided the nicknames for Fred and Bob
respectively-the one because of the obvious pun, the other from the
tallness and thinness which suggested a physical resemblance to the
long-shanked creature; hence The Buln-buln and the Brolga.

Though the year of the events, 1884, is unchanged, the circumstances
are different. Here Tom Collins, the narrator, is not, as in Such is
Life, a Government official, but, much like Rigby at one time,
mechanical expert to an agricultural implement company, stationed at
Echuca in Victoria, where the meetings and conversations which make up
the story take place.

The book forms a study in character of Fred the liar, set off by Bob
the bush-yarner, who can tell tall ones himself. As fabricators they
differ in their procedures: Bob apparently works by means of extension
of the facts, Fred on the principle of fanciful construction upon a
small basis of fact. These two take to each other naturally, Fred
finding a credulous listener, Bob a man with the gift of loquacity to
admire. Also Fred has, as Collins explains, just the wife to suit him.
Collins himself admires Fred, with pure disinterested appreciation of
his mastery of his one talent. On her part, Mrs Fred assesses Tom and
Bob by the value they place on the object of her adoration;
accordingly she thinks highly of Bob, but fails to rate Tom high
enough. Not that he cares: as Bob says to him in honest tribute, he is
above being forgiven.

From this, from his own recollections of his boyhood, and from the
concluding reflection, we learn more about Tom than we do in Such is
Life or Rigby's Romance. The last-named touches on his boyhood in
reminiscences of his first meeting with Rigby and his early friendship
with Steve Thompson, but The Buln-buln and the Brolga gives no fewer
than four complete glimpses of Tom, in the company of Steve and Fred,
at different stages of his boyhood and adolescence. From these we can
almost piece his history together. Then, too, he reveals himself
clearly in his attitude throughout-as usual that of the spectator and
commentator of life, never interfering in its course-shown in his
relation to Bob, then Fred, then Mrs Fred, and all three together;
although he modifies that attitude to the extent of attempting to
prevail on Bob to stay and spend more time with his new--found
friends, who rightly value Bob's admiration of Fred's abilities. At
the end Tom makes the more-than-usually negative comment: "And so
closes a glimpse, a mere momentary peep, into the vast and ageless
volume of human insignificance."

Tom generally sees life as a humorous ironic spectacle: he here views
it as also futile.

The characterization of Mrs Fred is subtle. Her appearance is prepared
for, then Tom is disappointed of his dubious expectations; instead of
wearing "a stern, practical, masterful look", being "sour in temper
and repellent in manner, through continual brooding over her grand
mistake", she proves to be tall, fair, lithe, graceful, and
intellectual-looking. But-the art of it!-she is false-intellectual,
pretentious, limited. Our first admiration of her is gradually abated,
as she reveals herself; and when she turns against Tom, our sympathy
moves quite away from her. She is simply Fred's "yes-woman", with a
superficial interest of her own in native ethnology; which, also,
draws her to Bob, as bushman.

The technique in presentation of Fred, too, is masterly, Furphy uses
recollection, which is started, first by Fred's letter to Tom, later
by mention of incidents of their common experience. We have a complete
study of Fred from boyhood to his present self-assured manhood. And as
a liar he is most convincing: he has all Bobadil's regard for detail,
all the coolness, resourcefulness and readiness to explain
difficulties in a story that he shows without Munchausen's outrageous
imposition on credibility. Surely, as Tom admiringly suggests, Fred is
a genius-liar!

The story offers, in sum, just one more glimpse of human
insignificance. But, almost glum as that interpretation may seem for a
self-styled jester, the book is very amusing, partly through the
characterization, partly through the yarns related, partly through
Tom's own comments. Before the meeting with Fred, we have an
excellent, unintentionally comic self-picture of the bushman in town,
drawn by Bob. And there is sheer fun in most of the incidents that
demonstrate the accuracy with which Tom perceives himself as he was in
his graceless juvenility.

The Buln-buln and the Brolga, in that it fills out the portrayal of
Tom, forms an essential-indeed, integral-part of the Collins saga; it
is also an addition to the humorous chapters of Such is Life.

Furphy's own typescript, copies of which were kindly lent by his son
Mr Samuel Furphy, Dr Lloyd Ross, and Mr E. E. Pescott, has provided
the text of this book. For permission to quote from unpublished
letters of Furphy in the National Library, Canberra, I thank Mr
Kenneth Binns, former Commonwealth Librarian. The publication has
enjoyed the usual interest and enthusiasm of Miss Kate Baker, O.B.E.,
and the ready co-operation of Miss Miles Franklin.

R. G. HOWARTH




THE BULN-BULN AND THE BROLGA


I THINK it was in the spring of '84. Anyway, in the exercise of my
apostolate as mechanical expert for the Mohawk Twine Binder, I was
temporarily quartered in Echuca. One evening, on reaching my lodgings
at Mrs Ferguson's Coffee Palace, I found a letter and a telegram
awaiting me. The wire was from my firm, in Melbourne:--

Meet Lascelles first through train tomorrow.

WAGHORN BROS.

Mr Lascelles was our commercial traveller. He would be seeking
information from me touching a prospective buyer, referred to in my
last weekly report. Twine Binders (which passed the Customs duty-free)
were sold to the farmers at rather more than double the invoice price;
hence there was keen competition between rival agencies, though all
were members of a well-organized Union; hence, also, any commercial
would shadow a possible purchaser with all the vim of Satan in pursuit
of a valuable soul. Meanwhile, the honest farmers, smarting under this
glaring extortion, responded by arraying themselves against the Labour
Unions-not very rationally, perhaps, but on general cat-whipping
principles.

The letter, dated from Essendon, ran:--

Dear Tom, Heard of your present vocation only yesterday. Called at
your warehouse and saw Mr Waghorn in his office. Devilish nice fellow.
Obtained your present address. Suits me down to the ground. Had made
preparations for a trip to Echuca by Excursion Train. Can you meet me
on the platform? Can you recommend lodgings, quiet, respectable, and
not expensive for self and-and-prepare yourself! Wife and three (3)
children, if you please!! Go thou and do likewise!!! We intend to stay
a few days in Echuca.

Your comrade, as of old.
FRED FALKLAND-PRITCHARD.

I showed the letter to Mrs Ferguson, who readily agreed to furnish
accommodation for the visitors.

Next morning, after breakfast, I put Mrs Ferguson's husband in the
shafts of my buggy, while I pushed behind; and so we ran the vehicle
to an adjacent forge, in order to have some repairs effected during
the forenoon. On returning to the Coffee Palace, I received another
wire from Melbourne:--

Missed train arrive tomorrow from Bendigo.

H. V. E. LASCELLES.

Here was a holiday, just forced upon me. Fred's Excursion Train was
timed to arrive at 3.15 p.m. I soon decided to pass the intervening
time in a horizontal position, amongst some blossoming wattles, a
little way below the Campaspe junction. And by way of shifting a
portion of that superincumbent mass of inborn ignorance which often
humbles my soul, and always fetters my usefulness, I provided myself
with Darwin's masterly and almost unreadable monograph on Earthworms.
Also I let my kangaroo dog off the chain. Poor Pup! Wherever I might
happen to be, I always had to tie him up every evening, otherwise he
would have been lost or stolen before morning. And many a reproach I
had to undergo on account of his unearthly rendition of Beethoven's
masterpieces in the dead vast and middle of the night.

The most direct route to my sylvan destination was along one of the
main streets; but, for reasons of my own, I dodged round by the back
slums. Frankly, it is not a bit nice for a man of position to walk
down a respectable thoroughfare, nodding to his acquaintances with
dignified composure, when a backward glance has disclosed his kangaroo
dog dawdling along at his heels, lithe, svelte and spirituelle, with
about ten pounds of stolen sausages hanging festooned from his mouth,
and tripping him up from time to time. But Pup couldn't eat the
sausages without stopping; so, when we reached the outskirts of the
town, I took them from him, and, sitting down on a stump, cut the
isthmuses with my knife, in order to help him to them one by one.
Then, after a mutual caress, we resumed our way to the romantic nook
that I wotted of.

Darwin is very filling. After a couple of hours' reading, I laid the
book aside, and turned my mind loose for a roll in the dust of Memory,
and a cavort round the paddock of Imagination. Fred Pritchard was
uppermost in my thoughts; and I longed, yet dreaded, to see him and
his wife together. For it hath been said by them of comparatively
recent time that no man is a hero to his vally-de-sham; and it seemed
to me that few men of my acquaintance were worse fitted to sustain
feminine analysis than this old schoolmate of mine.

As a boy, Fred had been distinguished by a curious combination of
positive and negative qualities. His one positive quality was
mendacity. His negative qualities spread out in an old man plain of
comprehensive incapability, in the centre of which, his solitary
characteristic reared its awful form above the clouds and midway left
the storm. He could lie. His style was ornate, yet reposeful;
microscopically exact, yet large and sublime. You could sit down and
rest in the cool shade of one of his fabrications. Tasteful, audacious
and adroit in his one art, he was limp and washy and generally
inadequate outside that speciality. Mild and pusillanimous in
temperament, the poor fellow's juvenile days were passed in the sphere
of a scape-goat; and, without being personally popular, he was viewed
as a sort of godsend by the bad boys of the generation to which I had
the honour of belonging.

We called him "The Lyre Bird".

If unmerciful beating could have cast the untruthful spirit out of
Freddy, and replaced it by something more in accordance with the
prosaic conditions of life, that result would have been achieved by
his surly English father. Pritchard senior lives in my recollection as
a man of really fine education, and withal, the most ill-natured and
supercilious person in our locality. His arrogance was not without
grounds. He more than once unbent himself to confide to my own dad
that he (the deponent, not my good old plebeian dad, for heaven's
sake!) was the illegitimate son of an illegitimate son of George IV.

And this was no mere European gasconade. Each quarter brought him a
remittance of 25 from his half-brother, Sir William Falkland, of
Falkland Lodge, Hants, England. Most gentlemen-and many rank-and--file
blokes-would have idly vegetated on this income; but Pritchard was too
fidgety for that, and too fractious to supplement it by means of nap,
baccarat, or other gentlemanly diversion.

By nature, culture and opportunity, a bully and a tyrant, he was, to
do him bare justice, no snob. He hated all sorts of 'ocracy with equal
malignity. And, believing himself to be, in a general way, born to
command, his passion for having servants led him into the very
inconsonant occupation of a road-contractor; in which sphere of
noxiousness he could always manage to boss half a dozen men, picked
for servility and cheapness. His wife owned a small farm besides, and,
chiefly by her admirable management, made both ends meet. Whenever
anything went wrong-which happened every second day, or so-Pritchard
senior took it out of Freddy with a horse-whip. His wife seemed to
have no influence over him in respect of the boy, though it was
evident that she would rather have taken the beatings herself. (By the
way, have you noticed that, at the present date, the barbarous custom
of child-flogging-like the more brutal kinds of sport, and the grosser
forms of immorality-is confined to the highest and the lowest classes?
Conservatism, in both cases.)

Also, if tenderest love and idolatry could have made Freddy truthful
and practical, that result might have been credited to his mother-a
fat, good-natured woman, ladylike in manner, prudent and thrifty in
management; and, as I remember, with a bust that seemed to boil and
bubble when she laughed.

But paternal brutality and maternal indulgence alike passed by Freddy
as the idle wind which he respected not. He lived in fairyland; only
returning to this low world of care when an appeal was made to his
fears, his vanity, or his cuticle.

Now, every normally constituted boy spends a considerable portion of
his time in the transitory Utopia above referred to; and the change of
air doubtless does him good. He brings back visions of beauty, and
aspirations of heroism, which become woven into the texture of his
character. It is a part of Nature's progressive discipline; and can
scarcely be called a digression in the journey of life. The boy who
has brought nothing out of fairyland, for the reason that he has never
been there, or has not found anything worth carrying away, develops
inevitably into a mere earthworm-maybe a religious one, or one with a
stake in the country, but an earthworm still. Again, the boy who
refuses to leave fairyland when the whistle blows, pays his penalty,
poor fellow, in the fecklessness of after-life. There is no harm in
him; gritless and inoffensive, and usually a blind, unaccountably
infatuated self-worshipper.

Both characters-the one who has never been in fairyland, and the one
who never leaves it-are, of course, liars; the sordid practitioner
lying for profit, at so much per fib; and the imaginative person lying
spontaneously as the spirit gives him utterance.

O. W. Holmes remarks that each of us is the totting-up of two columns
of figures-paternal and maternal. This is true of the very small baby;
it is not true of the adult. The latter is the totting-up of one
column, namely, his own self-discipline-headed, to be sure, by
Holmes's twofold total as a single item.

This is the old Stoic theory, which will sturdily survive all
chimerical and convenient hypotheses of heredity and atavism,
fashionable in our own day. Moreover, it is the old Christian theory.
Certainly, self-discipline is very largely directed and limited by
extraneous conditions. This is a fact which the old Christianity took
cognisance of, and provided for; and which the old Stoicism
unfortunately overlooked.

Pious, narrow, opinionative Cowper tells us that, of all the budding
ills by which the spring-time of our youth is dishonoured and defiled

None sooner shoots.
If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth.
Than cruelty, most d-lish of them all.

He is wrong. The first erratic shooting of the young idea is always
performed with that good old English weapon, the long-bow. Lying
commends itself to the juvenile mind as being easy, inexpensive, and
convenient; and in course of time the habit becomes fixed. In fact,
mankind may be broadly divided into two classes-perpetual liars, and
intermittent liars.

Lying is, of all arts, the most popular and cosmopolitan. The psalmist
reports himself to have said, in a moment of excitement, that all men
were liars; and, on more leisurely review, allowed the statement to
stand on record as being at least one truth emanating from himself.
Sir John also remarked how this world was given to lying. Epimenides
looked round on his countrymen, and chanced the assertion that the
Cretans-including himself, of course-were always liars; a censure
cordially endorsed by St Paul.

The Romans of old called the Greeks liars; and the Orangemen of the
present day call the Romans liars.

The Foreign-traders call the Protectionists liars-and vice versa. And
of all the accusations of mendacity which from time immemorial have
primed our atmosphere, probably not one has been groundless-except,
perhaps, when some Chinaman, after a few hours' patient controversy,
has applied the epithet to his jibbing horse. Which simply means that
truth is relative, not absolute.

But the long-bow is like the long-sleever, in respect that the habit
of immoderate indulgence is apt to grow upon you; also in respect
that, to maintain the doctrine of averages, the over-indulger should
be equipoised by the total-abstainer. Freddy was an over-indulger; I
was a total-abstainer. There was a very good collection of assorted
toxopholites at the country school we both attended-there being,
indeed, only the one exception already noticed-but Freddy was the
Teucer, the Locksley, the William Tell. In fact, during a space of
eight or nine years, while we grew in beauty side by side, from the
degree of the whining schoolboy, with his lunch-bag, to that of the
lover, sulking like pig, I only knew him to tell the truth three
times.

His first departure of this kind took place in school; each of us
being then about twelve or thirteen years of age. I'll tell you how it
came.--

A carpenter had been employed to build an addition to the schoolhouse;
and the dominie-a reputed master of seventeen languages-took advantage
of the opportunity to have all ink-stains, scribblings, scratches etc.
planed off the school desks. Then he charged us to refrain from
defacing the restored surface; or--

That was all, and it was enough. We knew from experience how he had
taken to heart the counsel of that currier in the fable, touching the
efficacy of leather.

During the afternoon of the following day, Freddy left his seat by my
side to seek the master's assistance in a sum which wouldn't prove. I
was working out a solitary game of puzzley-O at the time; but seeing
at a glance that everyone in the school was engrossed in his own
business, I moved to Freddy's vacant seat, took a soft pen, and wrote
on the cleanest part of the desk, in very fair imitation of Freddy's
handwriting, the signature,--"Frederick Falkland Pritchard".

I protected the writing with my slate until the ink was dry, and
concealed it with my arithmetic book when Freddy resumed his seat. A
few minutes afterward, the master passed along behind us, pausing to
scan each boy's work. While he stood behind Freddy and me, I was, of
course, fiercely busy-though I never was, and never shall be, strong
in arithmetic.--

"Nine times seven is fifty-six, and three is fifty-eight," I mumbled.
"Five, and carry eight. Eight and six is fifteen, and fifteen into
fourteen goes nothing times, and one over. Now, let's see--" and I
drew the arithmetic book toward me for reference.

The master's eye, which was a sharp one, fell on the signature; and
simultaneously his strap, which was a heavy one, fell on the shoulders
of the supposed signatory.

"Pleasir I didn't write that," whimpered Freddy.

"WHAT!" exclaimed the master. "Will you never leave off lying?" And
again the dust flew out of my poor client's jumper.

"I didn't do it! I didn't do it! Somebody else done it! Tom done it!
Tom done it!"

"We'll see about that," said the master, still applying his favourite
form of expostulation. "Did you do it? Did you do it? Did--"

"Pleasir yes!" screamed Freddy, finishing up with a lie, as usual,
though he had told the truth in the first instance.

An hour afterward, I said to him, "What the dickens possessed you to
write your name on the desk, you fool?"

"Devilment," he replied jauntily. "The idear struck me all of a
sudden, to get up a rebellion in the school. I expected you fellers to
mob Snarley while he was weltin' me. Never mind; I'll think out some
other plot before I've done. Snarley's got to suffer; and he knows it;
I see it in his eye."

A year or so afterward occurred the second known instance of Freddy's
telling an unmitigated truth. It came about in this way:--

My little brother, Bobby, was at that time six or seven years old;
Steve Thompson's brother, Jimmy, was about the same age; and the
children were inseparable companions. One Sunday afternoon, returning
from Sunday School, Steve and I sat down in a road-metal quarry, to
enjoy a quiet smoke of honeysuckle; Bobby and Jimmy meanwhile
gathering wild-flowers among the rocks.

"The little coves is about the same size," I remarked.

"Same temper, too," replied Steve. "Couldn't be better matched."

"Sooner they learn to take their own parts the better for themselves,"
I hinted.

"I think parents ought to learn their kids to defend themselves,"
observed Steve; "not have them growin' up helpless, for people to wipe
their feet on."

After some further interchange of opinion, we called the children,
promising to show them a new game.

We stripped them for combat, and tied their little suspenders round
their waists. Then we pleasantly explained to them the details of the
noble art, endeavouring at the same time to rouse their emulation by
calling them our champions of feather-weights. But they stubbornly
refused to hurt each other; so we were finally compelled to hammer
their faces together, till they lost temper, and flew at each other
with the ferocity of terriers. Then we had nothing to do but to pull
them asunder when we judged that a fair round had been fought, and
rush them together again after a very short interval of rest. The
fifth round, I think, was in progress when we looked up and saw Freddy
standing on the brink of the quarry. He disappeared immediately; and
we knew what that meant. We stopped the combat, and dressed the
children, after washing their faces in a crab-hole. Meanwhile we saw
Freddy approach my home-which was about a quarter of a mile from the
quarry-and stand for a few minutes talking to my father in the
veranda. Then we saw him walk briskly and officiously across the road
to Steve's place, and disappear through the front door. Oh, if we only
had him by the ear! Ay, if!

So we returned to our respective homes; each of us weighed down by a
bodement founded on the knowledge that our papas were men of the bad
old Puritan strain-men of unappreciative minds and saturnine
dispositions-no music in their souls, if you understand me. Each of us
strongly impressed upon his champion the necessity of reticence
respecting the new game; for we clung to the not unreasonable hope
that Freddy had obeyed the primary impulse of his nature, and told
some outlandish and confutable lie. The contingency was worth counting
on.

Each of us slunk round his home till tea-time, and then till bed-time,
silently offering up the prayer of Jacob the patriarch,--"Lord, get me
out of this scrape, and I'll guard against detection in future." I
noticed, as a bad omen, that my dad was reading a volume of sermons. I
would rather have seen him occupied with some lighter literature.
Before retiring for the night, I ascertained that Freddy had told the
truth. My father, in mentioning the circumstance to me, submitted a
proposal that he and I should discuss the subject practically and
exhaustively on the following morning. Nothing but the faint hope of
miraculous interposition withheld me from infidelity.

Now, Thompson senior was in the habit of putting a disagreeably
literal construction on Prov. XIII. 24:--

"He that spareth his rod hateth his son; but he that loveth him
chasteneth him betimes." It is a proverb which has earned for Solomon
a rancorous hatred from many successive crops of bad boys-one which,
in the juvenile mind, stamps the propounder as a fat-head or a skunk;
in either case, a most objectionable adviser, and a man who should
have had something done to him.

So on Monday morning Thompson senior, who, like my own senior, was a
rigid sabbatarian, rose with the voice of the magpie, and disturbed
Steve's beauty-sleep by throwing out a suggestion that they should
together repair to the out-house, for the purpose of discussing the
moral aspects of the new game from a physical standpoint Thompson
senior had the riddle-belt of a chaff-cutter in his hand; and they
performed the short journey with mutual though ill-distributed sorrow;
the expedition ending, however, in a triumphant vindication of
paternal affection-at least, according to Solomon's vagary.

My own dad was not so fond of dwelling on the diabolical proverb above
quoted as on that terrible warning contained in the story of Eli,
whose sons wrought evil in the sight of the Lord, and he restrained
them not. But the difference of text mattered little to me, inasmuch
as his system of exegesis brought him unerringly to the same
conclusion as Thompson senior; and, being a man of exceptionally
practical turn of mind, the firstlings of his heart were usually the
firstlings of his hand; the latter being by no means a light one in
its application.

Having, however, no desire to make myself the hero of my own story, I
shall not describe the unequal contest in which I was engaged at the
very time when Steve and his papa were quarrelling in the out-house.

But a few days afterward, when we were having a swim, Steve likened me
to a tiger, and I compared him with a zebra.

Such similes, however felicitous at that later time, would have been
odious to our dejected minds as we took our way to school together, a
couple of hours after receiving the paternal solicitation to virtue.

Why hadn't we watched better? Why hadn't one of us gone for Freddy,
while the other washed and dressed the champions? All would have been
well if we had but exercised a little judgment. No wonder we were
overwhelmed with woe. And-in perfect seriousness-the humiliation of
being whacked by foreign interlopers lent an intolerable bitterness to
our affliction.

It was about two miles to the school; and when we had gone a little
more than half-way we found, on the top of a hill, a capsized dray,
with one shaft broken off by the body. A little cheered by the
supposition that some one had paid the penalty of travelling on
Sunday, we provided ourselves with levers, took the wheels off the
dray, and bowled them down the hill. Then we journeyed on with lighter
hearts, feeling that, after all, it was a goodly thing to behold the
sun.

And life was even well worth living; for there was Freddy, fifty yards
ahead. He saw us as we saw him, and took flight. We pursued.

It is an axiom of mine-and in no way clashing with what I said just
now touching the column of figures, headed by Holmes's twofold total--
that a man, if not trimmed, espaliered, and pot-bound, by routine
systems of education or social conventionalities, naturally bourgeons
into a specialist. I would go so far as to say that, not only is each
individual designed to do something well, but he is fashioned by
Nature to do that something better than anybody else. Man, though born
in a state of deplorable helplessness and sottish ignorance, is
inherently dowered with certain rudimentary talents. These, reaching
the dignity of joey-faculties, are developed, this way or that way, by
the operation of a Will, which (never forget) is in turn moulded by
outward conditions. And there being no such thing in Nature as
uniformity of power, the strongest one of these faculties--
circumstances being favourable--dominates and dwarfs the rest; just as
a blue gum, growing amongst shrubs and flowers, ultimately gets the
garden to itself. And, paradoxical as it may seem, this involuntary
tendency to individual concentration of faculty is the sheet anchor of
ideal Socialism. Under present conditions, we find one man who can do
nothing but cheat; another who can do nothing but show off; another
who can do nothing but loaf; another who can do nothing but toil. And
so on. The rule applies to boys; allowance being made for the
versatility accompanying callowness. Now, Freddy's speciality of lying
was so life-absorbing, so soul-enveloping, as to permeate even his
physical system, leaving him about as vif and vigorous as a wet rag.
Consequently, the chase was a short one.

"What'll we do with him?" asked Steve. "He can't fight worth sixpence.
It ain't manly to hit him."

"Duck him till he's half-drownded," I suggested. "And here's a
crab-hole, jist providentially made to order."

"Hold on, chaps!" remonstrated Freddy, not without dignity. "I don't
understand you. I never done you any harm. We're in friends, ain't
we?"

"What did you gosh well tell my dad yesterday?" I demanded.

"To keep six bags o' seed oats for us," replied Freddy, looking me
frankly in the face. "That was the message the ole man sent me with."

"You lyin' cur!" I replied. "If you give my dad that sort o' message
on Sunday, he'd order you off the place!"

"So he jist did, now! He says, 'Off the place you go! How dare you
come with a message like that on Sunday?' says he."

"An' what fetched you to our place?" demanded Steve.

"I had to go about the turkeys."

"Which turkeys?"

"Well, when I was goin' to Collins's, about the seed oats, the ole
woman she says, 'Call at Thompson's, an' see if them four young
turkeys has took up with theirs; for I can't see them, high nor low,'
says she. An', sure enough, they ain't with yours, Steve. I think they
must 'a' gone to Maguire's."

"Didn't you tell tales about the fight?" I asked.

"Which fight? Who's been fightin'?"

"Screw loose somewhere," muttered Steve. "But hold on!-what made you
clear off when you seen us, just now?"

"Frightened," faltered Freddy, with a choking in his throat, and a
swelling of tears to his eyes. "Ain't you fellers always on for givin'
me sacks-in-the-mill, or somethin'?"

Apart from this verbal justification, there was such ingenuous
innocence in the speaker's looks and tones that Steve and I sullenly
resumed our school-bags, and turned away. Here we were joined by
another boy, a trifle older, and a good deal sturdier, than any of us.
This was Wesley Tregurtha, son of a local clergyman.

"What's up with you fellers?" he demanded.

When Steve and I had stated our grievance, Wes turned on Freddy with a
look of manly scorn, and struck him heavily in the face. Freddy
staggered, then recovered himself, and, without raising his hands,
opposed his patience to the other's brutality; the blood trickling
from a slight abrasion on his cheek-bone, and mingling with his tears.

"The bark strips well, for this time o' year," remarked Wes,
incongruously following up his British action with an Australian
by-word. "Stand still till I have another smack at you."

But Steve drew Freddy aside, and walked away with his arm round the
neck of the sobbing boy, offering such consolation as he could. Wes
looked thoughtfully at me.

"Tell you what I'll do with you, Tom," he remarked, at length; "I'll
take you one hand."

"Kneelin'?" I asked insidiously.

"Well, kneelin', if you like. I ain't particular."

Now it seemed my natural condition in those days to be a victim to the
unholy passion of ambition (that last infirmity of noble minds); and
the highest aspiration of my soul was to go through Wes Tregurtha.

Building on the rotten assumption that a bully is necessarily a fraud,
I had always been ready to tackle Wes, and always with disastrous
results. I was like the French nation, as pictured in English history.

From Cressy to Waterloo, these neighbours have warred almost
continuously; and John Bull, though in every instance fighting against
terrific odds, has uniformly come out on top. But this never seemed to
matter much to Jacques Bonhomme. His troubles! Give him his customary
majority of five to one and he needed no provocation to come up
smiling again, and again, and again; to be sent home each time in a
wheelbarrow. I was like Jacques, not only in his unbroken record of
failure, but in the odds with which he waged his wars; for Wes had
always been willing to fight under any reasonable handicap. But now he
seemed to have delivered himself into my hand.

"Shed your duds, you slummockin' beggar!" said I gleefully, throwing
down my school-bag. "Steve! Freddy! come back here! Call Jack Simpson
an' Corney Maguire! I'm goin' to take the flashness out o' this
psalm-singin' beggar! Now, Wes, I got a crawfishin' line here that'll
do to tie your hand behind your back."

"Thought you was goin' to take me kneelin'," observed Wes
indifferently.

"So I am. One hand, kneelin'."

"Fat likely!" he retorted. "I said I'd take you one hand, standin', or
two hands, kneelin'."

"Divil thank you! You'll do miracles! I'm not on!"

"Cowardy-cowardy-custard!"

"Parsony-parsony-pup! Who stole the missionary money?"

"Jis' you say that again!"

"I'll see you dash first, an' then I won't! Cock you up, indeed!"

"Ah! you ain't game, you skite!"

And so with mutual taunts we followed Steve and Freddy to the school.

But the Order of Things is full of compensation. An hour later, Steve
was frowning gloomily over the parsing of a treacherous sentence; Wes
was wrestling with the difficulty of distinguishing the nominative
from the objective on sight; I was trying the word "than" by every
possible test, in a fruitless endeavour to decide what part of speech
it belonged to; and each of us was cordially execrating the man that
invented grammar. Freddy alone was happy. He was in fairyland again.
He was a slight, graceful boy, brave, beautiful, and above all
invincible; a creature of heroic blood, and proud though childlike
form. With what calm, patrician scorn he confronted the burly
avoirdupois of Wes Tregurtha; scarcely deigning to notice the
uproarious cheering of the boys, and the tacit approval of the master,
as his plebeian antagonist went down before each blow from the small,
delicate, aristocratic hand!

Poor Freddy! But was he not wiser in his generation than the children
of actuality? Old Dr Johnson says that the greatest sublunary
happiness consists in being well deceived-well deceived, mind; and
Julius Caesar is credited with the axiom that, if you want a thing
done well, you must do it yourself.

Ah! but life is not all action, emulation, mischief. Now and then the
two worlds silently approach each other; a spectral hand beckons from
the Unknown Shore-and who shall detain life-mate, parent, child or
brother summoned thus? Then the golden thread of gaiety, mercifully
woven in the Parcaean web, takes a sickly leaden hue in the creeping
solemnity of the changed atmosphere.

See what sad completeness this shadow gives to that brightest of
comedies, Love's Labour's Lost.

Act after act, scene after scene, follow each other in the grace and
glow of such pastimes as seem to go far toward making mere existence
sufficient in itself. They fleet the time carelessly, as they did in
the Golden Age. They eat their bread with joy, and drink their wine
with a merry heart. But it cannot last; for the Unbidden Guest is
there--

Mercad. God save you, madam!

Princess. Welcome, Mercad; But that thou interrupt'st our merriment.

Mercad. I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring Is heavy on my
tongue. The king, your father--

Princess. Dead! for my life!

Mercad. Even so; my tale is told.

Thus confronted by a proposition admitting of no debate, the
light-hearted Princess shall thenceforward be sadder in mood, and wiser
in mind, by the vivid realization of Death's continual nearness. And so
with endless iteration the lesson is forced on our reluctant
perception, that the tale of life is never told till blue-shrouded
Azrael's icy kiss blanches a loved one's lips, and his dread shadow
falls on a familiar form.

From far away beyond History's dawn, the three old continents had been
watered by mourners' tears; and the story is the same in an unexplored
hemisphere. The sky is bright, the wilderness gay with life, and
beautiful in summer vesture, as Hiawatha brings home the bride of his
choice-brings the moonlight, starlight, firelight; brings the sunlight
of his people. But this is not the end; it is only the end of the
first chapter. For this joyous epoch contains the indestructible seeds
of a coming time when leaden skies shall look down on skeleton forests
and wastes of trackless snow; when the Famine and the Fever shall have
done their work, and the brokenhearted chieftain shall sit down, still
and speechless, on the bed of Minnehaha, at the feet of Laughing
Water, at those willing feet that never more shall lightly run to meet
him, never more shall lightly follow. Yet this will be the end of the
second chapter only. The infallible literalist, and the no less
dogmatic sceptic, are equally presumptuous in forecast of the third.

We do not know. We only know that from the bereavement which caused
Jesus to weep, there is no escape, no exemption here. Familiar to the
point of platitude is the truism, that one shall be taken, and the
other left; yet of all actual experience this is the most startling
and bewildering. And think not to be overlooked though you mingle with
the crowd; for there, with anguish unabated by fellowship in
desolation, you shall learn the lesson which dateless parting alone
can teach. Or flee away on the wings of the morning with your loved
ones to discover some smiling Azores or rugged Ile de Bourbon, where,
since Chaos reigned, no human foot has trod, nor human sin penalized
the soil-and how long before the grave-mould shall hide caressing
hands for ever stilled, and responsive eyes for ever dimmed? Ay,
wherever human life is lived, the smile and the tear, and the song and
the dirge, still follow each other like surge upon surge.

And so let it be, for there is a time to be born, and a time to die; a
time to mourn and a time to dance.

Alternate sunshine and rain is the law of Nature; alternate smiles and
tears is the law of human life; and this rhythmic reaction is as
necessary to healthy moral being as the tide to the sea, or the wind
to the atmosphere.

About five years after the occurrence in the quarry, Steve and I
strolled out, one Sunday, to the little country cemetery in hope of
obtaining a distant view of some girls whom we mutually worshipped in
their collective capacity, and whose leer we would have thought cheaply
purchased by any sacrifice of comfort or principle on our part. The
girls were not there; and we mechanically went on till we stood by two
little fresh mounds, enclosed by the same picket fence. We glanced at
each other, without speaking, and walked away in opposite directions. An
epidemic of diphtheria had passed through the neighbourhood, a few weeks
before; and our rival champions of feather-weights were sleeping side by
side. They had never quarrelled but once; and that quarrel, divested of
all its comical accessories, was the uppermost memory in our minds.

I mention this, because it was on the very next day that Fred told the
truth for the third and last time within my knowledge. It happened in
this way:--

Monday was a public holiday, owing to its being the birthday, or
something, of some person in Europe; a prince of somewhere, I think;
Wales, if I remember rightly-but no matter. Steve and I had gone out
shooting; not that we found either pleasure or justification in firing
on pretty and inoffensive birds, but it was the correct thing to go
out shooting on holidays. Happily, however, we met with such qualified
success that four o'clock in the afternoon found us sitting, hungry
and tired, on the bank of the creek, two miles from the township, and
three miles from home, with no spoil except a possum, which we had
shot asleep on a sapling. We were both silent.

I was thinking how, in the morning, my little sister had humbly asked
me to nail up a shelf in her play-house.

Being fully occupied just then in doing nothing, I had ignored the
poor petition, and had left the child pottering patiently at the work
herself. And now I was unable to banish the recollection, though it
made me feel unbecomingly tall and manly in bodily presence.

"This is my last day's shooting, Tom," grumbled my companion. "I've
said the same thing before; but I'll stick to it this time."

"Same here," I sighed.

"I think this gun of mine's like myself-getting a trifle the worse of
wear," said Steve discontentedly.

"She shoots twice as wild as she did last Easter; and that's saying a
lot. She can manage a twelve-foot circle at twenty yards. The only
safe place is straight behind her."

"Mine's just the reverse," said I. "The only safe place with mine is
straight in front; the worst place is straight behind."

Another interval of silence.

"We've no business to be here at the present moment, Steve," I
continued, at length. "This game would have suited us right enough
when we were young; but a person gets sadder and wiser as they get
older. Anything in the shape of recreation is a mistake."

"Fame and fortune is the only things worth going for," contributed
Steve. "Everything else is a swindle. Love's the worst swindle of the
lot. Too one-sided. You're welcome to get soft on a girl, and make an
idol of her and an ass of yourself-and what does she care? Not
sixpence. I'm off it for the future."

"Girls is no worse swindle than holidays," I replied, with bitterness.
"You count the months on ahead; then you count the weeks, and the
days; and round comes the holiday, as large as life-and what is it,
after all? It's like the apples on the bank of the Caspian Sea; fair
to the eye, and a thing to be desired to make one wise; and when you
sink your teeth into them, you find nothing but ashes. How the ashes
gets there is the thing that fetches me. But there's your holiday.
Now, Fred Pritchard hasn't had a holiday since he started carrying the
mail, twelve months ago; he doesn't look for one now; and he's a lot
better without. Presently he'll come jogging along here, as happy as
Larry; with his mail-bag on his saddle, and his revolver at his belt.
The revolver amuses me. It's like poor old Fred; always romantic. Does
him good to fancy somebody wants to stick him up, if they were only
game."

Our eyes met; and Steve murmured, half-unconsciously, "Sposen we were
to blacken our faces, and stick him up? We could leave his horse and
mail-bag where he could get them again. His version of the story would
be worth listening to."

"At a word," I replied, rising to my feet. "I'll go and find some
corks where the old shanty stood, while you kindle a fire."

A few minutes later, I was rubbing the burnt cork over Steve's face.

"We'll take a strip of skin off our possum and put it round under your
chin," I suggested. "A grey whisker'll set you off to rights. I'll
call you 'Captain'. You can call me 'Terry'. I'll speak with a slight
Irish accent."

"Good, again. But I say, Tom; this is a five years' job, if we're
found out."

"Life, more like," I replied. "Fancy you an old ticket-o'-leave man; a
stiff, English-looking bloke, like an iron-grey cob; with a bit of
whisker in front of your ear; and full of yarns about how bad you used
to be treated-They harness'd us onto a plough; To plough Van Diemen's
Land."

"Now that I think of it," I continued; "it's a hanging matter.
Sticking up Her Majesty's mail comes next after high treason. I think
I see you fetched into the Court with ten police--

"'What's your name, you hound?' says the magistrate."

"'Stephen Thompson, please your lordship,' says you, in a voice of
emotion."

"'Well, Stephen Thompson,' says the magistrate, 'you're charged with
sticking up Her Majesty's mail nunquam dormio; and the verdict of this
Bench is that you're to be slung by the neck till you're dead-dead-dead;
and the Lord have mercy on your miserable rat of a soul. Ad valorem.
If you know of any just cause or impediment why the above verdict
should not be carried into effect, you're to spit it out now, or for
ever hold your peace.'"

"'I done it for a lark, your majesty,' says you."

"'Silence, you varmin! or I'll commit you for contempt of Court sine
qua non,' says the magistrate. 'Your lark doesn't take properly, let
me inform you; for the Fifty-seventh Clause of the Act expressly
provides for these little jokes. String him up, boys, and shove on
with the next case. God save the Queen!'"

"Remember that yours'll be the next case," said Steve, as he rubbed
the burnt cork over my face.

"Gosh! we'll be a bit of an attraction to the Waxworks!"

"Not me!" I replied. "I know how to work these things.-"

"'What's your name, you mongrel?' says the magistrate to me."

"'T. Collins Esquire, at your service,' says I. 'Well connected,
though I say it myself. We move in the best society.'"

"'Well, Mr Collins,' says the magistrate. 'You see my predicament.
Information has been laid before me, one of Her Majesty's Justices of
the Peace in and for the said Colony of Victoria, to wit, namely, that
whereas some evil-disposed person or persons, not having the fear of
God before their eyes, so to speak, and being instigated by the Devil,
as it were, has been sticking up Her said Majesty's mail of malice
prepense and aforethought. What's your view on the subject, Mr
Collins-if it's a fair question, in a Vox populi vox Dei sense?"

"'Kindly place the interrogation in Pons asinorum form,' says I."

"'With pleasure,' says the magistrate. 'Have you any idea who robbed
the mail?'"

"'No more than the man in the moon,' says I. 'I claim the protection
of the Court, with a plea of semper idem.'"

"'Clear case of lucus a non lucendo,' says the magistrate; 'and the
gentleman leaves the Court without a stain on-'"

"Here comes Fred!" exclaimed Steve. "I think we're all ready. Take
cover behind this big tree, and let things follow their natural
course."

The unconscious Fred approached the ambuscade. He was in fairyland, as
usual. A gallant young knight, fearless, reproachless, and terrible as
an army with banners. Proudly caracoled his Norman destrere; brightly
flashed his lofty helmet, and gaily waved the foam-like plumes
thereon. And see, by'r lady! streaming from that haughty crest, the
silken scarf which but a se'en-night agone encircled the slender waist
of the Lily of Roncesvalles. He hath sworn by Saint Jezebel of
Vallombrosa--an oath of parlous might-to bear yon fond token through
fair and gentle joust, yea through desperate battle fray; and well,
albeit lightly, mote that peerless knight maintain his pledge. By my
faith! well mote he hang his blazoned shield high in tourney field, a
challenge to Christendom!-for where rideth the champion who shall
brook to meet with slackened rein and spear in rest such avalanche of
glittering steel?

Par le splendeur Dex! 'tis a gallant knight, and a joyous! Lightly he
carols, in the sonorous syllables of the Langue d'Oc, a roundelay of
love and valour. I'faith he recks not for aught beside. He rides at
will through the merry greenwood, in scorn of ducal feodary, or baron
or squire, or knight of the shire; for mark ye, knaves! his pass, in
danger tried, hangs from his belt and by his side! Lightly it clashes
against silver stirrup and golden spur; freely it flashes back the
rays of the declining sun; four and forty inches of grey Syrian steel,
pardie!-who shall gainsay it? Ha!

Now, by my halidom, 'twere worth ten years of peaceful life to behold
some half-score clerks of Saint Nicholas sally forth from ambush!
'twere worth a Jew's ransom to hear--

"Bail up! you son of a sea-cook!" Fred's horse immediately stood; so
did Fred's hair; so also did his heart. The horse thriftily dragged
sufficient slack through his rider's palsied fingers, and began to
feed alongside the track; while Fred sat staring wildly at two slim,
half-dressed figures, with blackened faces, twenty or thirty yards in
front. These had just stepped out from behind a tree, and now stood
leaning with ostentatious nonchalance on their grounded guns. Fred's
white lips moved, but no words issued; the poor dreamer was past that.
And this remorseful historian cordially endorses every ounce of
reprobation you can heap upon the two thoughtless scamps who conducted
the enterprise.

"Chuck yer mail-bag down on the blurry road," said one of the brigands
gruffly.

Fred obeyed, with readiness.

"Shling ye'r revalver afther id, an' the cush o' Crammel an ye,"
snarled the other ruffian.

Alacrity is an inadequate word to express the promptitude of Fred's
compliance.

"Git hoff o' that there blurry 'oss," growled the First Robber.

Again Fred obeyed, with a docility calculated to propitiate the
miscreants, who were slowly drawing nearer.

"Give the wurrd, Captain," said the second bandit, raising his gun.
"Didd min tells no tales, begorra."

"Who th'ell's boss, Terry-me or you?" asked the Captain imperiously,
then, addressing Fred--"See that there bunch o' 'eath? Well, lay down
flat, with yer 'ead in that blurry 'eath. So. Flat! I tell yer"--

"Flatther! Tare-an-ouns! Flatther! ar be the mortial frast!"
--click-click!-the Irish gallows-bird was raising the hammer of his gun.

"Steady, Tom," said the Captain, in an undertone. "You'll have him
croaking on our hands, if you don't look out. He can't get any
flatter; he's pressing about half a ton on the ground now. Say, young
shaver," he continued, raising his voice; "take out yer blurry watch,
an' see wot's the time. So."

"Now stop jist as y'are f'r arf a hour, an' y'r safe's the blurry
bank. Y'll fine y'r blurry 'oss hat the bridge. Hif y' lif' y'r blurry
ear afore the arf-hour's hup--"

"Whoo! Captain mavourneen!" yelled the rapparee. "Jist lave me to dale
with the ghassoon! Be the hole in me coat, av he moves leg ar limb,
Oi'll settle him! D'ye moind that, now!"

Fred required no further caution. He heard with deep thankfulness the
slow footfalls of his horse, as the Captain led the animal to the
bridge; and with mingled emotions he listened to the discordant voice
of the ferocious subordinate, who, whilst picking up the mail-bag and
revolver, poured forth his irrepressible spirit in an airy distich:--

Och! the swatest divarsion that's ondher the sun Is to sit be the
foire till the praties is done!

"Yerra, be me sowl, the divil a foiner attimpt at clane an' dacent
wurrk since the toime fwin Black Ryan wuz an fut-glory be to Ghad!"
Then the voice died away, and the silence was broken only by birds and
crickets.

"I say, Tom," suggested my companion; "we can do better than leaving
the mail-bag on the saddle. We'll plant our guns and things in the
sand, and wash our faces, and fetch the mail-bag to the post office.
If we cut across the paddocks, we'll get there quicker, with the start
we've got, than Fred can on horseback. We'll strap his revolver to the
saddle."

The idea was good. We washed our faces, resumed the coats we had
thrown off, and buried all our shooting tackle. Half an hour later, we
were sauntering up to the post office. The mail was due; and the
postmaster was standing at his door, looking down the straggling
street of the township. A puff of dust, half a mile away, indicated
the approach of the flower of chivalry, coming as fast as he could
hammer his old moke along.

"Evening, lads," said the postmaster, who, of course, knew us well.
"Enjoying your holiday? Drop of rain wouldn't hurt."

"Badly wanted," I replied. "Isn't this Fred Pritchard's mail-bag?"

"To be sure, it is. Where did you find it?"

"Lying on the middle of the road, about sixty yards beyond the
Honeysuckle Creek."

"And here comes Fred, with a lie cut and dried for the occasion," said
the postmaster confidentially, as he placed the mail-bag behind the
door. "That fellow never tells the truth, even by accident."

Fred reined up, and dismounted.

"Where's your mail-bag?" asked the postmaster.

"You'll hardly believe what I'm going to tell you, Mr Appleton--"

"I won't believe one syllable of it, Fred. I'm interested in nothing
but the mail."

"Well, I was stuck up by two bushrangers; and they--"

"Never mind about the bushrangers now," interrupted the postmaster. "I
asked you where was your mail?"

"They had their faces blackened, and--"

"Did you hear my question? I asked you where was your mail? This is a
serious matter, Fred."

"I know it is, Mr Appleton. Well, I was just riding along as usual,
when suddenly two--"

"Will you answer my question, or will you not? Where's your mail?"

"One of them was an Irish--"

"Wait," interrupted the postmaster. "I think you make a parade of
carrying a revolver-don't you?"

"Well, yes; I do carry a revolver, but--"

"Where is it?"

Fred reluctantly drew the weapon from a police holster on his belt.

"I thought so. And I see you've got your watch in your pocket still.
And here's your mail-bag. Aren't you ashamed of yourself. Couldn't you
come forward like a man, and say honestly that you had lost the mail
instead of inventing an impudent lie about bushrangers? Now let this
be a warning to you, Fred. Try if you can break off that habit. And
see: a repetition of this-or anything like it-may be followed by
estreatment. Now go."

And the good-natured, yet precise postmaster shot out the scanty
contents of the mail-bag on his table.

"Nothing for any of you lads," he remarked, nodding a polite good-bye
to all three. Fred's face was a scientific study, as he walked away
with Steve and me.

"What was the yarn you were going to spin him?" I asked
sympathetically.

"I was going to tell the plain truth," replied Fred. "I was going to
tell him I was stuck up at the Honeysuckle Creek by two bushrangers
with their faces blackened. I'm going straight to inform the police."

"My word! you'll get three years solitary if you do!" I rejoined
quickly. "That's the regular penalty for laying the police on a wrong
scent. Think twice, Fred, you want a mighty strong case before you go
fooling with the police, let me tell you."

"There's one thing you want to look after," said Steve thoughtfully.
"You want to make some distinction between the bushrangers. Say one of
them was long and thin, and the other was short and fat; or one of
them had a long beard, and the other was clean shaved. Something of
that sort helps a lie out wonderfully-gives it a proper finish."

"It's not a lie," reiterated Fred. "And the bushrangers were about the
same height, so far as I remember. I don't care what you say.
Certainly, one of them was clean shaved, and the other had a sort of
grey whisker round his face-yes, I'm certain he had. He was a
horrible-looking character. Gruff voice."

"That's right," said Steve approvingly. "Now the other bloke ought to
have some particular brands to identify him by."

"He was an Irishman--"

"North or South?" I asked.

"South. A low, rascally, bloodthirsty Fenian. I'd walk a hundred mile
to see him scragged. His name was Terry."

"Fred, Fred," said I sadly; "you're overdoing the thing now. How do
you know his name was Terry?"

"I heard the Captain calling him Terry."

"This is dreadful," I sighed. "You started with two bushrangers, and
now you've got about a dozen. You've got a beardy cove, and a shaved
chap, and an Irishman, and the Captain, and the bloke you call Terry.
Knock off, knock off."

"Look here!" responded Fred solemnly. "I hope I may be struck dead if
I haven't told the truth!"

"You'll be taken at your word, some of these times," said I gravely.
"You'll use that expression once too often. Why, you've been dreaming
about bushrangers. See how quick old Appleton bowled you out!"

Fred was silent. "Why didn't you have a crack at them with your
revolver?" asked Steve.

"Well, to tell you the truth," replied Fred frankly. "I felt a bit
nervous, for the moment."

"That gives the yarn away worse than anything else," said I decidedly.
"We know your temper. If you had been stuck up, you'd have come into
the township full gallop, with your empty revolver in your hand, and
six bullets in your horse, and the blood trickling down your sleeve.--
'Thank heaven!' says you. 'The mail's safe'-and you'd fall fainting
into the arms of a young lady that would be waiting for letters. Then
the police would go out, and fetch in the bodies; and the Government
would hold a meeting, and consult about what to do for you."

An ecstatic far-away look beamed in Fred's face, but soon faded.

"There's two ways of looking at the thing," he remarked thoughtfully.
"Of course, it would be grand to come into church of a Sunday, as
modest as a girl; with your empty sleeve pinned to the front of your
coat, and about a dozen medals and stars and crosses on your breast.
That's right enough. But that's only one way of looking at it. Not so
pleasant to have the bone of your arm smashed into splinters, and see
the doctor wiping the blood and marrow and stuff off his saw after the
operation." He paused with a sigh. "And yet the left arm's about the
best place you can get hit," he added despondently.

"The shoulder's the most romantic," observed Steve.

"That's more than you can say for the abdomen," I rejoined.

"You're right, Tom," assented Fred earnestly. "That's just the one
thing that would keep me from being a sojer. Think of some great,
ignorant, hairy savage of a foreigner coming up full butt, and driving
a three-square bayonet through your tummy, till it sticks out of the
small of your back! No, beggar me if I'd like to feel a bullet or a
bayonet tearing through my inside."

There was a minute's silence. By this time, we were two hundred yards
from the post office. Fred suddenly stopped.

"Dash me!" he exclaimed. "I've forgot my horse! I won't be a minute.
Will you chaps wait?"

"No," said I; and we were walking on, when Fred, having gone back a
few steps, stopped again.

"Does either of you fellows happen to know what 'estreat' means?" he
asked, with evident uneasiness. "Estreat a person, what's that?"

"It's Latin for three years in irons," replied Steve.

"With hard labour and solitary," I rejoined. "Considered equal to
seven years of common chokey. But it's never whanged on to a person,
except for a breach of Government contracts, or for laying the police
on a wrong scent. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I got a bit of a wager about it; and I find I've won. Easy way of
making five bob. Wish it was five notes. So long, chaps."

"So long, Fred." Then we parted; Steve and I to recover our guns and
go home; and Fred to pass his late adventure through the alembic of
imagination, where it would suffer a sea-change into something rich
and strange. A few months after this event, Pritchard senior died of
some unpronounceable scientific term signifying internal haemorrhage
of irascibility and malevolence; whereupon Mrs Pritchard sold out and
removed to Melbourne. The farm had belonged to herself-her husband's
half-brother, Sir William Falkland, having generously presented her
with the purchase-money, ten years before. In fact, there was no end
to Sir William's munificence. Just when Mrs Pritchard left our
district, this gentleman sent for Fred to come and see him in England;
he kept the young fellow there for months; then dispatched him back to
Victoria with a life-annuity of 100, chargeable on an Irish estate.
And from that time forward Fred hyphenated his own two last names;
thus promoting his uncle's patronymic from a Christian name to a
surname. There seemed to be a certain intricacy and vagueness of
family relations in the case. So far as I have been able to learn, the
complication stood thus--

Edward Falkland, Esquire, of Falkland Lodge, Hants (son of the First
Gentleman in Europe, per Arabella Falkland) married Charlotte Pole
(one of the Poles), and had issue William (referred to in this
narrative as Sir William Falkland, of Falkland Lodge, Hants). By
morganatic marriage with supplementary lady (presumably named
Pritchard), this Edward Falkland, Esquire, had also issue Sylvester
Pritchard (whose obituary notice has led on to this genealogical
dissertation).

Sir William Falkland, thus grandson of the Lord's somewhat rakish
Anointed, and half-brother to Sylvester Pritchard, married Helen
Robberts, daughter of Vice-Admiral Robberts, K.C.B., and had issue one
idiotic son and one deformed daughter, names immaterial.

Here the interest veers round to Miss Kirkham, seventh daughter of the
Rev. Clarence Kirkham, incumbent of Thorpe Mullock, a parish
contiguous to Falkland Lodge. In this way Sylvester Pritchard (our
Pritchard senior), living as gentleman loafer on Sir William's Scotch
estate, was summoned to Falkland Lodge in haste; there he received
Miss Kirkham in marriage, with 300 in cash, and was straightway
consigned, with his bride, to Victoria, on an allowance of 100 per
annum during the pleasure of Sir William. Two months after landing in
Melbourne, Sylvester Pritchard had issue my friend Fred-who thus, of
course, became eligible for membership in the Australian Natives'
Association. These family entanglements seem to afford a clue to the
origin of hyphenated names.

Anyone with a fancy for working out such things by algebra or
logarithms might find mental exercise here; but, as I never could get
beyond Reduction, I must call Fly.

About the time when Fred went to England, Steve Thompson and I,
confident that we were men of the time, departed from our homes in
different directions, to fulfil, severally, our great destinies. Our
efforts, by the way, have been rewarded by a measure of success. Each
of us might now say, with Celia's shepherd, "I am a true labourer; I
earn that I eat, get that I wear" etc. And I trust that if we shall be
spared to assume the venerable age so beautifully and coincidently
pictured by both the Royal Sages, Jacky XL VIII and Solomon:--"Bimeby
plenty plour-bag longa cobra"--"The almond tree shall flourish"-we may
not be found whining over the transparent fact that our days are in
the yellow leaf, but rather romancing magnificently re the athletic
exploits of those times when, by the mass, we were called anything,
and would do anything, indeed, and roundly too.

I had never seen Fred since, but had heard of him from time to time.
It must have been in '70 that he went to England, for rumour reported
that he had served with startling distinction, as a volunteer, in the
Franco-German war. The same authority also stated that, on the return
voyage to Victoria, his ship had twice been attacked by pirates-once
in the Levant, and once in the Indian Ocean-and had each time been
rescued by Fred's courage and address.

Mrs Pritchard, versatile, capable, ladylike, and now relieved from her
connubial incubus, was reported to be doing very well as a matron in
some Melbourne institution; and, occasionally, country people who knew
Fred saw him doing the Block in faultless array, or, more rarely,
clerking, sometimes in one Government office and sometimes in another.
To do him justice, superiority to any affectation of idleness had
always been one of the many virtues which flourished on his Great
Central Desert of incompetency. Toward old friends, it appeared, he
was uniformly genial and obliging. But at last came a report which
filled me with awe. The poor impostor had fatuously gone out of his
way to court detection and ignominy. He was married. Now, I have a
theory that women do not love their husbands; and the application of
this rule to Fred and his wife is the mainspring of the present
memoir. I hold that married life is a long-drawn ordeal, which no man
short of a Chevalier Bayard has any business to face; and my
hypothesis may be reasoned out in several ways. Perpend.

All deep feeling finds utterance in song. What an invaluable
contribution our aggregate patriotic poetry is! Or our amatory; or our
elegiac; or our pastoral; or our religious. But our connubial, which,
you would think, ought to surpass any other section, is represented by
just two songs worth publication:--"John Anderson my Jo", and "There's
Nae Luck About the House". And the last-named miracle of ardent
expression is not the subjective utterance of a loving wife, nor is it
the dramatic conception of the scholarly William Julius Mickle, to
whom it is popularly attributed; it is the passionate, longing
aspiration of a poor hysterical schoolmistress of Greenock, Jean Adams
by name-a woman who never had a husband in her life, and to whom the
far-off field looked anything but blue. "John Anderson my Jo", of
unknown origin, is like the knife which first had the handle replaced,
and afterward the blade. The original song was decidedly fie-fie in
language and sentiment. In its present form, it is simply the
objective literary exercise of a man who could write anything, and
write it well.

Again. There were few aspects of human nature that the wonderful
Hellenic race had not studied, and few intricacies of mind or heart
that the restless research of its poets had not inquired into. Now, it
certainly appears that their characteristic way of putting the
conjugal case is this: Cupid (Love) was born of Venus (Desire), and in
due time was wedded to Psyche (the Soul). Think over that for a
moment, and its completeness will grow upon you. Cupid charged Psyche
that she should never see him; she must be content with realizing his
presence. That, of course, was enough to determine poor Psyche, who
thereupon waited till Cupid was asleep. Whilst engaged in the
interdicted survey, a drop of burning wax fell from her torch on the
shoulder of Cupid. Then Love vanished, and the Soul was alone.

That is the end of the original allegory. The apotheosis of Psyche,
and her eternal re-marriage with Cupid, are afterthoughts, exquisitely
beautiful, but with the passionless loveliness of a sphere we may not
explore. We have only one life here; and under the fierce white light
that beats upon a married man, the hero vanishes; then I would rather
not be the discredited old pensioner who takes his place.

To be sure, the truth never suffers by exposure; but we don't want the
truth in this case; we want the other thing. For, unfortunately, the
scare-crow truth of masculinity, the incorrigible he-ness of the
he-feller, comes out only too brightly under the penetrating rays of
Hymen's slush-lamp. "A woman's secret" is said to be her opinion of
her husband-is it not reasonable to suppose that if the opinion were
felicitous it would be anything but a secret?

Give to lovely woman a slip or scion--be it of the commonest geranium
or the unique Plusgorgeousorum Smithii-she will accept it with the
vivid but inexplicable delight experienced by her sex in receiving a
present probably worth rather less than nothing. She will carefully
plant that scion-most likely with the wrong end uppermost-and tend it
according to her best judgment and ability-such as they are. And
daily, with a touch soft as the fall of a snowflake, tender as the
kiss of Artemis on the lips of sleeping Endymion, she will draw it out
of the ground, into the fierce white light, to see how it is getting
on. She will not let well alone. And you see the consequence.

Woman's love is romantic, and flows like the Solway in romantic
atmosphere, but ebbs like its tide when a more intimate knowledge has
resolved that atmosphere into its prosaic components. Woman's love, like
a rare Alpine exotic, planted in the backyard of Life, between the
wood-heap and the clothesline, wilts and withers and is seen no more.
Yet we will transplant this delicate edelweiss, and then helplessly
watch it perish in uncongenial air. And while grass grows and water
runs, woman will consider too curiously-Psyche will light her
torch--then alas! for the vanishing hero, and woe for the
fatally-enlightened vally-de-sham! Ten thousand women revered and
idolized John Wesley; but there was one woman to whom he was small
spuds, and few in a hill; one woman who used to put out her tongue at
him when he was preaching, and who, in the seclusion of domestic life,
cursed and cuffed him, and set him utterly at naught. That was the dear
lady Disdain who had studied the demi-god's close-cropped, wigless
cranium; who had watched him shaving, and had marked him snore o'
nights; who was familiar with all his jokes, and who knew exactly how
much truth there was in his yarns; who had heard the demi-god's voice
saying:

"D--n the boots! and the (adj.) snob that made them!"-or words to that
effect.

And who so admired by lady friends as Dr Johnson, the Colossus of
Literature?-yet think of the valuation placed on him by the one woman
who knew him down to the ground. In like manner, the Wizard of the
North was no magician to his vally-de-sham. "When we want money," said
she, "Walter writes one of his rubbishy novels." Rubbishy work,
rubbishy workman. From Belisarius, the invincible soldier, down
through the ages to Ruskin, the incomparable writer, that sad
experience is repeated. Ah me! the husband once found out has no
remedy that I can think of.

"He groans! he is not a god!" shout the irrationals of Owhyhee.
Illogical idolatry has made the discovery, and the Circumnavigator is
doomed. He was found out--that's all. Illogical admiration is not
content with the pencilled beauty of the butterfly's wings, but must
needs turn the insect upside down, to be rewarded by the sight of a
vulgar grub.

Why is Hamlet never a favourite with the woman-student? Merely because
she sees him morally vivisected, and illustrated (so to speak) with
coloured plates. Ophelia loved him as the glass of fashion, and so
forth; but when he groaned he was no longer a god; when he raised his
arabesqued wings, he disclosed the segmented and woolly body common to
the Lepidoptera-and all was over.

The gods will give us some faults to make us men; therefore no man is
up to the husband-ideal of a loving woman. The bachelor may reach this
standard-for why shouldn't he be magnanimous, and mettlesome, and
debonair; prepared to do all that may become a man, and sometimes even
things that don't? And if he should fall a trifle short of the real
Mackay-a contingency that you may safely count upon-he is in no way
compelled to flaunt his own worthlessness before the feminine eye. But
Sir Benedick, the married man, must wear his rue (rue is good) with a
difference. To aggravate the disadvantage of living in a glass house,
he will, like Martha, be careful and bothered about many things; he
will, in a general way, become sordid, and thrifty, and domesticated;
he will learn to glory more in buying articles cheap at sales than in
carrying off trophies from his compeers; he will become particular
over his tucker, and cautious about getting his feet wet; he will
become prudent, and circumspect, and churchwardenlike, and befittingly
frightened in the presence of anything lawless, from a crash of
thunder to a scrub-bred steer. And, gentle lady, there goes your
ideal. Confess it, ye divil! Let us all ring Fancy's knell.

David (the half-naked minstrel of Bethlehem, I mean--not the French
artist, nor the Melbourne newspaper man) was just such a daisy as you
might expect a woman to love. He was brave, chivalrous, and
accomplished; pious, without being at all sanctimonious; "of a fair
countenance", the chronicler says, and distinguished, even in early
youth, for gallant conduct in the field. Like Master Fenton, he
capers, he dances (as we shall see in the sequel), he has eyes of
youth, he writes verses (much valued by Presbyterians), he speaks
holiday, he smells April and May; he will carry't, he will carry't;
'tis in his buttons; he will carry't. "And Michal, Saul's daughter,
loved David," says the chronicler. So far, so good.

The lovers' history might be epitomized in two proverbs-one relating
to the course of true love, and the other to the bright lexicon of
youth. Anyway, the romance ended as romances ought to end, namely, with
orange blossoms, ring, register, rice, old boots, congratulations, etc.

Here your novelist would prudently leave them, with the foolhardy
summary that they lived happily ever afterward. But the chronicler
goes on to say that Michal's affection knew no decline, but rather
intensified and matured while the days were going by. He tells us how,
when the day's work was over, Michal used to place beside her
undetected impostor the pipe and tabor he loved so well, while he
spread a sheet of Egyptian papyrus on the table, and, dipping his reed
pen in the Tyrian pigment, wrote in Old Hebrew (which is more like the
charred relics of a half-burnt stockyard than an alphabetical
character that honest men have any business to understand) his
culpably unintelligible superscription, To the Chief Musician on
Neginoth upon Sheminith Maschil A Psalm of David. (This "pipe", by the
way, was probably something in the form of a chibouque; and the
"tabor" seems to have been a vintage from the historic mountain of
that name.) And in the cornucopia-laden autumn of their well-spent
lives, the era of silver threads among the gold, her same old drunk--
for you can call it nothing else-made her still petulantly insist on
the affectionate abbreviation of "Mike".

The chronicler says nothing of the sort, for, like myself, he better
loves the lone, chaste, monolithic severity of unembellished truth than
any meretricious ornamentation-scroll, or acanthus, or parsley-leaf, as
one might say-of poetic justice or dramatic unity. So these are his
words:--

"And Michal, Saul's daughter, looked through a window, and saw David
leaping and dancing before the Lord; and she despised him in her
heart." Afterward, of course, she gave him a bit of her mind; behold,
is it not written in II Samuel, Chap. VI.

It had to come, soon or late. The Psalmist was a man, like the rest of
us; and under the fierce white light he had ceased to be a hero to his
vally-de-sham, though still remaining the idol of the feminine public.

And when this stage is reached you may write Selah, and close the
book. Nothing more tender than armed neutrality can ensue; for
masculine human nature, once contemned by its chosen cwt. of poor,
perishing dirt, never forgives. We find it so much easier, you will
observe, to forgive our own shortcomings than the imperfections of our
ladye-loves. This 'tis to be married; this 'tis to have linen and
buck-baskets. Ay de mi!

Communing after this fashion with my own soul, I spent a few restful
hours under the wattles; and in due time returned to Mrs Ferguson's
for what the vulgar call dinner, and what we of finer moral fibre
designate lunch. Then an hour before Fred's train was due I started
for the railway station, leaving Pup safely chained in a comfortable
place, with a few empty chaff-bags to repose upon.

Half-way to the station, I met a horseman, followed by a loose
pack-horse; a lean, wiry-looking man, whose sun-darkened face and hands
contrasted amusingly with his white boots and stylish city garments. I
had to look over him carefully, as he approached, before fully
recognizing another friend of former days, though of much later date
than Fred.

"Bob himself!" I exclaimed, as we met.

"Go to (sheol)!" responded Barefooted Bob delightedly. "Where you off
to?"

"Railway station, to meet a friend. But I'm in no hurry. Where are you
off to?"

A look of tranquillity settled on Bob's face. "Jist as fur back as I
can git," he replied quietly and decisively.

"But you'll stay in Echuca tonight?"

"Didn't intend. But I'd like to have a pitch with you--sposen I
wouldn't be in your road." So saying, he dismounted, and accompanied
me back to Mrs Ferguson's, leading his horse.

Bob, with the bushman's habitual taciturnity, had the bushman's
artless candour. When the spell of silence was broken, he would tell
you, not only anything he thought might interest you, but everything
that interested himself. He had just passed a fortnight of utter
desolation in Melbourne, and was now returning with all speed to the
more cheerful and homelike regions of the Never-Never. Reaching Echuca
by the midday train, he had straightway gone to the paddock for his
horses, with a view to Deniliquin Common as his next camp.

"Wouldn't live in that hell-upon-earth, not if you give me a pension,"
he remarked fervidly. "This was my fust sight o' the curse o' God
wilderness, an I swear it'll be the last. I'm on'y sorry for the
people that's tied up to it. Even the ships was a have. Why, they're
no size. I always thought a ship was as long as from here to that
pointed church, an' as wide as from here to where that dray's
standin'." (The distance first indicated was about a quarter of a
mile; the last, about a hundred yards.) "Decenter finished than I
thought, though. I expected to see the mark o' the adze all over them;
but they're touched off like buggies, an' most o' them solid iron. But
once seein' them's enough, an' once seein' Melb'n's once too often.
An' ain't the sea a swindle! Hear lots o' skitin' about sea-bathin'--
well, I tried it one night last week, when there was nobody about; an'
I'm blest if my rags ain't stickin' to my hide ever since. I'd rather
stop dirty than fall back on that specie of cleanness. Fact is, the
sea ain't fit to bogey in; it's too salt to drink, an' it ain't salt
enough to keep properly. It's goin' rotten fast. An' I got my own
opinion about the sea-breeze, from this out. My word!"

"You found M'Gregor, right enough?" I conjectured, knowing that Bob's
business had been to force a personal interview with his elusive, yet
exacting, boss.

"Like a bird. Tell you how I got on. Course, M'Gregor he deals with
M'Culloch and Co.; so, after gittin' out o' the train, I gropes my way
to M'Culloch and Co., Limited; an' when I found the place, I asked the
people in the office where M'Gregor lived. I told the boss o' the
place where I come from, an' how long I'd been with M'Gregor, an' how
I was beginnin' to buck on it, an' wanted to git a settlin' up--

"'Here's me,' says I to the boss, 'with a hundred an' fifty notes
comin' to me-or from that to a couple o' hundred-an' on'y thirteen
shillin's in my pocket! About as near flyblowed as a man could wish to
be,' says I; 'an' can't git no more satisfaction from M'Gregor nor if
he was in heaven; an' me has been breakin' my neck tryin' to keep
things together for him. Seems like as if he'd been standin' in my
light ever since I been workin' for him. I been chewin' the rag over
it for years,' says I; 'but a mighty sight worse for the flast six or
eight months.'"

"'This has no interest for me,' says the boss."

"'Simply because you ain't got a proper holt of it,' says I. 'I'll
soon give you a sort o' rough insight: After me settlin' the cattle on
a bit o' new country,' says I; 'an' livin' worse nor a blackfeller,
an' buryin' my mate--Ah! Mr M'Culloch,' says I, 'I wish you'd 'a
knowed Bat! Grandest feller ever put his foot in a stirrup; an' he'd
give you the shirt off of his back! Well,' says I to the boss, 'after
me doin' all that a man could do, till a narangy an' a couple o' chaps
come an' took charge, the orders was for me to go back to Avondale.
When I got there,' says I, 'I was shoved straight into the job of
cleanin' out a tank, sticky as glue, that took me two solid months,
with a mate that wasn't worth his grub, pore feller. An' all this time
I was charged three bob a week paddickin' for my two horses; an' the
boss o' the station, he had the devil's own cheek. You wouldn't
believe your own eyes, Mr M'Culloch,' says I, 'how things was altered
on Avondale since I fust seen the place-goin' on for fifteen year ago
now. It's mostly all secured, one way or another; an' take my word,
it's nothing for nothing; everything brought down as fine as a hair.'--

"'I beg you parding!' says the office boss, sort o' quick.

"'No offence,' says I. 'Don't speak of it. Well, after makin' a decent
job o' this tank-or you might call it a reservoy-I was sent to Wagga
with twelve hundred yowes; an' still not a word about settlin' up; an'
no satisfaction any road; for I'd jist as soon be dead, straight off,
as I'd be crammed down on the Lachlan, where things is cut so fine.'"

"'Explain these matters to Mr M'Gregor,' says the boss."

"'That's jist the very identical thing I'm on for doin',' says I. 'I'm
ripe for a disturbance; an' I'm a treacherous beggar when the scales
rises on my back. If I git a settlin' up with him,' says I, 'I'll
sling him. I don't mind doin' it,' says I, 'for he's bound to clear a
lot out o' pore Bat; for Bat's mother's in the Ararat Asylum, an' he
never had any father, nor brothers, nor sisters.' An' then I was jist
startin' to explain about Bat; an' the boss he makes a remark-"

"'This is an office,' says he."

"'I know it is,' says I, 'but it seems more like a Governor's squat to
me. Can't come this style o' thing at Wilcanniar,' says I, 'nor yet at
Hay. But as I was tellin' you, Mr M'Culloch,' says I, 'me and Bat had
been together since we was boys!'

"'Wait a moment,' says the boss-'Who are you?'

"As soon as I told him-'Why, demmit,' says he, 'there's a letter been
layin' here for you this last twelve-month.'"

It's care of Mr M'Gregor, an' per favour of this office; but it wants
a fresh tuppenny to take it on to New South; so Mr M'Gregor he'd have
nothing to do with it. He offered to give us your address,' says the
boss; 'but, of course, we couldn't forward it without the tuppenny.'

"'Course not,' says I, 'but ain't it curious how they'd let themselves
run short o' stamps in sich a big post office as you got here?'

"'Very singular, indeed,' says the boss. 'However, here's your
letter'-after one o' the young chaps had fetched it-'Much pleasure in
deliverin' it to you personal. An' here's Mr M'Gregor's address, wrote
on this nongvelup. Good afternoon,' says he.

"'Good afternoon,' says I, as polite as himself; an' I sets down on a
table, an' reads the letter. Made me ropeable. The letter was from my
sister, to say she was jist startin' for Mount Bischoff-wherever that
is. My brother-in-law he'd got into a good billet there; an' my mother
she was goin' with them; an' they wanted to hear from me quick. Seems
my ole man died a bit before that--"

"By the way, Bob," I interrupted, "how long is it since you wrote to
your people?"

"Goin' on for three year," replied Bob reluctantly. "Well, when I read
the letter, I says to the boss o' the office--

"'Jist look here, Mr M'Culloch!' says I. 'Don't that bang Bannaghar?'--
an' I goes on explainin' things for his satisfaction, an' showin' him
how I'd lost the run of every relation I had, through M'Gregor's
carelessness--

"'I don't understand you,' says he.

"'Simple as ABC, when you got the proper hang of it,' says I; an' I
starts explainin' it agen-when suddenly! I couldn't believe my own
eyes; an' I felt like a dog that's been found out shakin' tucker from
the camp; for who should drop in but M'Gregor himself! It was jist as
if it was to be.

"'Bob, laddie!' says he, shakin' hands with me like as if I was his
son-an' you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather at the same time,
on account o' the sort o' guilt that was on me-'Bob, laddie,' says he,
'I been expectin' you day after day for the last fortnit. This is my
right-hand man,' says he to the office bloke. 'I back him agen the
world,' says he, 'for to go through with anything he tackles.'

"'Delighted to make his acquaintance,' says the office feller. 'We
been conversin' amicable for a good half-hour. Great pleasure to me,'
says he; 'but I'm frightened I've trespassed on his time.' "'Don't
mention it, Mr M'Culloch,' says I. 'I ain't in sich a red-hot hurry as
all that. Jist you wait till you hear me makin' myself anyways nasty
about it.'

"'I'll say this for him,' says the office bloke; 'he's a man can make
himself at home anywhere; but I should say his proper home's about
half-ways between here an' the Gulf.'

"'Gospel truth, this time, Mr M'Culloch,' says I--'even if you never
told the truth before. Same time, I'd feel lonely enough on'y for
meetin' with coves like you. Anyhow,' says I, 'I s'pose that's about
all I'm goin' to git here; so I'll let go my holt on you an' hang on
to Mr M'Gregor. Come an' have a drink, Mr M'Culloch,' says I.

"'Not before dinner, thanks,' says he, startin' on a stack o' letters
to open them.

"'Bar jokes,' says I-'ain't you had no dinner yet?' An' with that,
M'Gregor he grabs me by the sleeve, an' snakes me out to a pub; an'
the two of us has a drink; an' he told me to wait till he'd call round
for me.

"'You got to take up your quarters with me while you're havin' your
holiday,' says he.

"So by-'n-by he calls round, an' out we goes to his place at Kew.
Style! Don't mention it! An' he fetches me into the house as if I was
the Governor, an' gives me an intro. to Mrs M'Gregor an' the two Miss
M'Gregors--

"'My right-hand man,' says he. 'If I'd a couple o' dozen more battlers
like him,' says he, 'I'd be the richest man in Australia in another
ten years.'

"So there was me. Anyhow, M'Gregor wouldn't hear o' me goin' for one
day after another, till I was fair sick an' tired with goin' back an'
forrid to Melb'n every day, seein' life. I used to git my tucker in
the sort o' second-class-quality place, an' I had a bedroom all to my
own self, with washin' tackle an' everything complete. Real
copperplate. An' mostly every evenin', M'Gregor'd send for me to come
into his office; an' he'd talk to me quite confidential about all that
was takin' place on his stations, so fur as I knowed. Course, I ain't
a master's man; an' I was careful not to say anything I'd be sorry for
after. Still, there ain't a single thing happens on all them
properties but what he knows; an' he's got the measure of everybody,
from the supers down."

"No false pride about him," I observed.

"Not a particle. Jist the other way, if anything. Is this the place
where you're stoppin'?" For we had reached the Coffee Palace, and were
now turning into the stable yard.

Mrs Ferguson shook her head when I presented Bob as an applicant for
lodgings. The very last bed in the house was already engaged.

"O, stick a pole out o' the winder, an' I'll roost on it," interposed
Bob deprecatingly. "Nothing gits over me like this idear o' beds. Take
my word, missus, I've slep' every way except standin' on my head; an'
I might have to tackle that style yet. Don't bother about me, or
you'll make me feel uneasy. I got blankets with me; an' I on'y want
you to show me where I won't be in the road."

Mrs Ferguson yielded. "Have you had lunch?" she asked.

"Well, yes. Every time the train stopped for refreshment I had a small
feed; so I ain't as badly off as I might be. Time we was gittin' a
move on us, Collins-ain't it?"

"By the way, Bob," said I, as we turned back toward the railway
station, "I'll have to introduce you to the Pritchards. What's your
other name?"

"Bruce-Robert Bruce."

"A good name. I fancy I've heard it before. Now, Bob, you must watch
yourself, and keep from swearing, or saying anything that would shock
a lady. But I notice you've turned over a new leaf in the matter of
language."

"Yes, I'm middlin' straight along that line now," replied Bob,
complacently, yet sadly. "Knocked off swearin' when pore Bat went, an'
kep' on the narrer path ever since. Fact, I ain't shy o' sayin' I'm a
religious man now. But a person wants to watch his self in respect o'
swearin'. Now, I had a fashion of sayin' 'Go to (sheol)' when you said
anything that struck me forcible; an' when I repented I sort o'
overlooked this habit, right on till on'y the Sunday before last. Tell
you how it come--

"I was havin' a look at the ships; an' there was a bloke standin' on
one o' them, seemin'ly in charge; an' I ast this feller, in a sort o'
matter-o'-fact way, whether the ship was holler all the ways down, for
convenience o' stowin' things, or whether she was logged up solid at
the bottom to give her stidiment when the wind was blowin' all o' one
side; an' this cove he told me to come on board if I liked, an' look
down the catchway. Then we got into a yarn; an' he seemed to take
pleasure in explainin' things.

"'Now,' says I to him, in the course o' conversation; 'about what bat
can she go, when everything's right, an' you send her at her level?
"'About eighteen mile an hour,' says he.

"'Go to (sheol)!' says I.

"He gives a look at me that I didn't think of till after, an' then
goes on explainin' something else. By-an'-by says I, 'An' how much of
a load can you stack onto her, without her goin' heels-over-tip, or
anything givin' way?'

"'Two thousand ton,' says he.

"'Go to (sheol)!' says I, quite natural.

"He wheels round an' looks at me agen, an' then goes on explainin'-an'
me never takin' the hint. The habit had a holt o' me, an' I didn't
know it. After a while, I says--

"'Well,' says I, 'I can't make out-not if I was to be shot,' says I,
'how you can strike the place you start for, when you got a matter of
twenty or thirty thousand mile to go, an' not a thing to be seen.
Sposen you start her straight,' says I, 'she might go edgin' off right
or left, an' you not know. How do you make her fetch the very spot you
aim her for, no matter how she wriggles about?'

"'Easy,' says he. 'We got instruments to make observations, so we know
the very spot we're in; an' knowin' where we are,' says he, 'course,
we know which way to steer.'

"'Go to (sheol)!' says I.

"He steps back an' looks me up an' down. 'Well,' says he, 'if you
ain't got common manners, you ought to have common impidence. I make a
point o' civility to any blubber that shows an interest in seafarin'
details; but you ain't worth it. You're a savage! Clear off o' this
boat!' says he, 'an' foller your own advice,-in other words, go to
(sheol)!'

"Course, I apologized as polite as himself; then we got on fust class;
an' when I was comin' away, he give me a fistful o' cigars. But
that'll tell you how habits git holt of a man. One minit, while I
think of it," he continued, after a pause. "I'll cut across to that
cloth-shop, an' git a new nose-rag. When you're in Rome, you must do
as the Romanists does. Here you are, sonny." He tossed his white silk
handkerchief to a barefooted guttersnipe (who needed it badly), and
then, with his long, slow, brolga-like step, strode across the street
to parade his refinement in a draper's shop.

His wits, thought I, as I lit my pipe, are not so blunt as, God help,
I would desire they were; but in faith, honest as the skin between his
brows. Ay sir, (ruminating along the text), and to be honest, as this
world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

"So you didn't appreciate Melbourne," I observed, as we resumed our
way to the station.

"Well, it ain't altogether like what I expect heaven to be, sposen I'm
lucky enough to git there. Certainly, the Waxworks is splendid; I used
to have a look through it every time I passed; but, outside o' that,
you can see everything worth seein' in a couple of hours."

"Art Galleries?" I suggested.

"Turn out better work myself, if I had a fortnit's practice," replied
Bob confidently. "Who wants to see a picture of a 'Sunrise', or a
'Winter Evening', when you can git the genuine article for nothing? As
for the statutes-I wonder the bobbies allows them."

"Of course, you went to the theatre?"

"Rather. But one trip left me full up."

"What was the play?"

"Hamlet, I think-yes, Hamlet. The front part might' a' been worth
seein': but I was on'y in time to git the tail-end. The blokes on the
stage acts right enough, but they can't recite worth sixpence. One o'
them happened to spout my own favourite recitation; an' it would give
you the influenza to watch his gyvers."

"Course, you know the words as well as I do:--"

"'Alas pore Yorick I knew him well Horatio'--"

"An' so on. Well, this cove, with his black tights an' black poncho,
he turns the skull over in the hands for a bit; then he looks across
the country at nothing, like a feller in a dream; an' by-an'-by he
says, 'Alas!'

"Then he looks down at the skull agen; an' after a while he says,
'P-o-r-e Yorick!'"

"Studies a bit longer, then turns partly round to the other galoot,
an' remarks in a mournful tone o' voice, 'I knew him well, Horatio.'
Another bit of a think; then he gits a move on him agen-'A fellow of
in-finite jest, of most ex-cellent fancy; has borne me on his back a
thousand times' an' cetera."

"An' while this was goin' on, about an acre of people was watchin' an'
lis'nin', an' tryin' to git the worth o' their money. I was fair
disgusted."

"You should have followed it up every night, Bob, till you got
properly in touch," I suggested.

"I bettered that," replied the Goth drily. "Opera--no less. Yes; I've
seen a opera, an' I'm quite satisfied. My word! I forgit the name o'
the performance--foreign gibberage, anyhow. Fust, a woman comes on the
stage, dressed up to the nines, an' sings something, with music goin'
all the time; then comes a bloke, dolled up like's if he'd come out of
a ban'-box, an' he sings some parley voo to the woman; an' she sings
something back to him. But while these two was actin' the goat, an'
the music keepin' time with them, in comes another cove wearin' the
same rig-out; an' he sings something to the fust feller; an'the fust
feller sings something back to him. Then each o' them draws a sword
about as wide as a saddle-strap, an' they fought to a brisk, lively
sort o' music. Next, the woman runs in between them, an' sings
something to the second chap; an' he sings back to her; an' the fust
bloke chips in with his Last-Rose-of-Summer-That settled me."

"'Here!' says I to the swell-cove sittin' aside me-'let me git out!
This is deadly!' An' out I got. Yes. I can stand a lot o' common
foolishness; but I'd want ten bob an hour for seein' operas. I was to
have took one o' the servant girls with me that time, on'y M'Gregor
wouldn't allow it. Fearful strict, God-fearin' man, he is."

"Did you come to any settlement with him?" I asked.

"Well, no," replied Bob reluctantly. "He hadn't any settlement made
out; an' he was fearful busy. He said he thought there was more comin'
to me than I was aware about. So that's all right. He give me a cheque
for ten notes, the fust evenin'; an' then, last night, he give me
another cheque for thirty notes, besides five sovereigns-'I s'pose
you'll be wantin' to git away early in the mornin',' says he. An' take
my word for it, he was right."

"Did he get you to sign anything?"

"Yes; he got me to sign a matter o' form. Beggared if I'd 'a' knowed
what it was, on'y he told me. An' the last word he says to me, last
night, when I was biddin' him good-bye-'Bob, laddie,' says he, an' he
lays his hand on my shoulder. 'Bob, laddie,' says he, 'I'll make a man
of you yet. I'm givin' you a free hand,' says he, 'on account o' the
opinion I got of you; an' I won't keep you tied up to a locality you
don't like. I'll stick to you, Bob,' says he; 'an' I'll expect you to
stick to me.'"

"God send the companion a better prince," I muttered involuntarily;
and then it struck me that my quotation was even happier than I had
intended, for my friend, though distinctively known as Barefooted Bob,
was colloquially termed "The Companion".

"No savvy," he remarked dubiously, though recognizing his own title.

"It's nothing," I replied sadly. "Bob! I'll give you a token of my
prophetic power!"

"How?"

"I'll tell you exactly what you're going to do."

"Go to (sheol)!"

"You're going to do some pioneering for M'Gregor."

"Wrong, this time," replied Bob, smiling. "I'm on'y goin' to smell out
a new run, off from the Diamantinar."

"Me an' Bat we found some splendid country there, jist before pore Bat
took bad; an' M'Gregor's frightened o' somebody collarin' it, though
it ain't a good place to git at. Fact, me an' Bat mightn't 'a' got
back, on'y for a thunderstorm; for we lost the run o' Bat's horse; an'
we on'y had mine between the two of us."

"Tell you how it was. One afternoon, we sighted the prettiest little
lake you ever seen; an' our horses was mad thirsty; an' we knowed the
water was good, by the birds; an' on we goes, yarnin' like two fools,
an' lettin' our horses rush the water. Nice smooth sheet o' white sand
all along the edge; you'd think she'd carry ten ton; but my mind
misgive me, on account of a dream I had the night before; so I pulled
up, an' sung out to Bat. He was tryin' to turn before the word was out
o' my mouth; but it was too late, for his horse went through the sand
into black mud, an' couldn't recover, no road. Bat he turns a back
summerset, an' rolls clear; an' the horse begun to struggle; an' the
whole place movin' an' bulgin' like a tarpolin with the wind under it;
an' in about two minits there was no more sign of horse, nor saddle,
nor bridle, nor there is on that footpath; nothing on'y jist a sort o'
wavy crack in the dry sand, with the black mud spuein' up from
underneath. An' as luck would have it, both the two water-bags was on
Bat's saddle, on account of his horse bein' a lot stronger nor the bit
of a weed I was ridin'. Nice way to be fixed, with sixty to eighty
mile of rough, waterless country to cross back agen; an' no
preparation; an' the ground about two degrees short o' redhot; an' us
in a sudden fright about the four hundred head o' cattle we ought to
be mindin'-Shows how careful a person ought to be."

"How did you manage?" I asked.

"Why, went to a sound place, an' stuffed ourselves an' the horse with
water, an' got a few mussels, an' scooted. Uneasy about the cattle,
for we'd no business to be both away together. Next afternoon, we
begun to feel it. When you're in a cool climate, like this, if you
want a drink, you can go without till further orders; but in a warm
climate you feel it. So there was us, splodgin' through some sand,
peltin' the horse along in front of us, for, to make matters better,
he had broke a bit off his hoof in some stony ground. No foolish
yarnin' then, but plenty of good hard thinkin' instead; an' each of us
with a mussel in his mouth, to keep it damp; an' we seen the sky
turnin' black, low down, out to our left, an' the sun blazin' away
everywhere else; an' by an' by we seen the lightnin' so bright it made
the sunshine seem dark after; an' we heard the thunder goin' grand.
Then we soon reckoned her up to be about five mile away, to the
middle."

"You're a scientific man, Bob."

"On a piccaninny scale," replied the pioneer, modestly yet
complacently. "Anyhow, I always found a certain rule to work out
correct, simple as it is. When you see the lightnin', you jist begin
to count, middlin' slow---'one-two-three'-till you hear the thunder
belongin' to that flash; then you drop countin', an' allow a little
better'n four to every mile, an' reckon her up. You foller this rule
for a few brattles o' thunder, to make sure; an' you'll git at her
middlin' right. Worst of it is, you can't see nor hear no sign of a
thunderstorm, if she's goin' on ten or twelve mile away-fact, very
seldom eight mile. Queer, too, considerin' the loudness of thunder.
I've heard a frog-bell quite as fur from the camp."

"The earth is a good sound-conductor, and the air a very bad one,
Bob," I remarked. "Thunder is actually louder than artillery; yet no
peal of thunder is audible at twelve miles from the point of
explosion; whilst the cannonade of Jena, for instance, was distinctly
heard at a distance of more than ninety miles; Waterloo at a hundred
and ten; and, without a word of exaggeration, the artillery fire at
the siege of Ant--"

"Go to (sheol)!" ejaculated Bob, with the touching interest of an
intelligent but uninformed man.

"Anyhow, by the time we got three or four mile, it was sundown, an'
the air was cool, an' you could smell the rain on any scrub there was;
an' in another mile or two, we seen the stars shinin' in a gilgie that
the rain had filled. So we got through right enough."

"Fine open country we have in the interior," I observed, as we seated
ourselves in the veranda of the railway station. "No name for it. Do
your eyes good to see the place where we lost Bat's horse. Grass above
your stirrups, an' no end o' permanent water. Seems to be a sort o'
island-like the Tatiara; on'y, of course, the desert's a lot rougher,
an' the island's a lot better. I was tellin' M'Gregor it's middlin'
bad to git at; but there was some emus, about half-road; an' they
wouldn't be far off o' water in that sort o' weather. Must be water
there; an' I'll find it before I'm six months older, or you can call
me Johnny-come-lately, or Burke-an'-Wills, or anything you like." He
paused, and sat with his eyes thoughtfully and approvingly fixed on
his effeminate boots.

"Another for Clan Chattan," I soliloquized hopelessly.

"Eh?"

"Nothing, Bob. Habit of talking to myself. Here comes the train, at
last!"

The long line of carriages drew up to the platform, which instantly
became alive with hundreds of holiday-seekers. I attentively scanned
the crowd, doubtful of recognizing Fred, but certain of identifying
his wife at a glance. I could picture her exactly. Let me explain.

We are all gifted with an intuitive sense of what you might call
appellative congruity, or the appreciation of fitness in proper names.
But from a very early age I have endeavoured to systematize the crude
intuitions, the mental phantasms, which as proper names vibrate on the
tympanum, photograph themselves on the uninviting grey matter inside.
In fact, I have formulated a science, which I call Nomenology, and
which, like all other sciences except Mathematics, sometimes runs
cronk. Yet I felt that I would recognize Mrs Pritchard on sight. As
Fred's antithetical complement, she would carry a stern, practical,
masterful look; also the poor woman would be sour in temper and
repellent in manner, through continual brooding over her grand
mistake.

To describe her after the poundkeeperlike manner of your gushing
novelist, she would have coarse, hard, black hair, in close proximity
to a receding forehead; black eyebrows, well defined, but somewhat
misplaced, bounding her nose (if you understand me) on the south-east
and south-west instead of the north-east and north-west, and meeting
at the little gutter which separates the nose and mouth. Small, keen,
dark-grey eyes, and a strong-minded aquiline nose, would give
character to her face. She would have thin, firm, colourless lips--a
mouth which would strike you as being designed for the reception of
sustenance, and the expression of opinion, rather than for the more
romantic office in which, as poets feign, this important organ is not
unfrequently employed. She would have a strong and prominent chin; a
square, pugilistic jaw; and I must not omit to mention a very
conspicuous mole, crested by five long, black hairs, and situated on
the side of her chin, about an inch below the extremity of her left
eyebrow. Sinewy neck, angular shoulders, level bust, and all the rest
in proportion.

Australian born-as her eyebrows betoken-but speaking with a
perceptible Scotch accent.

As the crush at the barriers subsided, I saw Fred, carrying a child on
his arm, and recognized him with some relief of mind. Time had dealt
bountifully with my old schoolmate. All that he had lost in
youthfulness was more than gained in bearing and presence. He had
stopped growing-much to his own discontent-at fifteen or sixteen; but
the resultant deficiency was now generously overpaid by a better-class
portliness. His bright, luxuriant, curly hair-noticeable when he
raised his hat to some departing fellow--passengers-was efficiently
seconded by the most harmoniously associated whiskers and moustache
which I have yet been privileged to admire; and his unobtrusive chin
was set off by that aristocratic shave vulgarly known as the
"squatters' gap". Indeed, so pronounced was his air of distinction
that even the most casual observer would at once have marked him as a
man of no common standard. But there is usually some outward and
visible sign of any inward and spiritual greatness; and Fred was as
great as Washington, though in an entirely different way. At all
events, there was such consciousness of indisputable eminence in his
whole aspect that I looked round with vivid interest, and some
uneasiness, for the stern face of the person who, in the nature of
things, had found him out. She was nowhere to be seen; but Fred was
followed through the wicket by a tall, fair, intellectual-looking
woman, lithe and graceful, carrying a baby in her arms, and towing a
little boy by her skirt. I was on the point of asking after Mrs
Pritchard when Fred, stepping aside from the crowd, introduced this
splendid cedar of Lebanon as his wife. I leaned against a veranda post
for support. Nomenology-a science as yet only in its infancy, and
purely empirical, in the best sense of that abused word, was at fault
once more.

In face and figure she was beyond criticism; not only negatively
perfect, but almost aggressively attractive. Analysed, this
attractiveness was of the kind that faithfully indexes a true woman's
temperament-which implies much, and nothing but good. Owing to many
co-operative causes, the Australian woman of the best type has
probably no equal on earth; and Fred's wife was a satisfactory
illustration of our country's possible achievement in the most
momentous and far-reaching of all national commissions. In no respect
was she like her picture; indeed, I noticed with a touch of chagrin
that even her moustache was golden brown instead of rusty black.

My compassion for Fred was augmented to poignancy. It is bad enough to
stand disclosed in all your worthlessness before a commonplace woman;
but to be weighed in the balances by such a daughter of the gods is
simply to have MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN written on your forehead.

There were three children to the fore. The eldest, Hereward, was old
enough to do a good deal of exploring on his own account, and to
declare with easy fluency his impressions of the various sights he
saw. He was also addicted to the asking of difficult questions; a
habit not so offensive in children as in adults, and one, by the way,
that cost Socrates his life. The second child, Sissy by name, was
somewhat younger; she too could speak fluently, though not
intelligibly. The third, of unknown sex, I should imagine to have been
some months old; a fat, white child; remarkably good-tempered,
conspicuously bald-headed, and, as I remember, subject to lacteal
eructation.

On recovering my self-possession, I introduced Mr Bruce. Then, as Mrs
Pritchard preferred walking, after the long ride, we arranged with a
cabman for conveyance of the luggage. Bob, meanwhile, was cultivating
the goodwill of Hereward and Sissy.

"Jist let me take these two little coves, missus," said he. "Ain't
every day a man gits a slant o' goin' mates with white piccaninnies."
He gently raised Sissy as you would lift a teapot, and placed her on
his left arm. "Comfortable there, ole son?" he asked.

The child glanced at his face in quick alarm; but when he stooped down
and took Hereward on the other arm, she smiled confidently to her
mother, and secured herself by a good grip of her new guardian's
beard. And so Bob brought up the rear of our procession; presently
diving into a confectioner's shop, where he speculated in a large
quantity of the most glutinous lollies known to the trade. When he
reached Mrs Ferguson's a few minutes after our arrival, the children
were excessively thirsty, and industriously wiping their viscous,
saccharine hands on their apparel. Their mother took charge of them
for a while, after which they returned, with shining faces and
smoothly-brushed hair, to their new friend.

The children were not more taken with Bob than Bob was with Fred. It
was pleasant to notice how the simple-minded bushman was bewitched by
the affable man of the world, who, without a shadow of sarcasm,
spontaneously addressed him as "Mr Bruce". And Bob's admiration was
just the sort of tribute that Fred-unless he was much altered-would
cordially recognize and carefully cultivate.

After dinner, Fred and Bob went down the street together, taking the
children with them. Mrs Pritchard had taken the bald-headed baby to
her room. I remained alone in the little parlour, disquieted on poor
Fred's account, yet hoping against hope that his wife might yet
disclose just sufficient intelligence to obey without cavil her
repressive and salutary marriage vow. But soon the object of my
uncharitable, though well-meaning, wishes, entered the apartment; and
I placed a chair for her by the open window, with some trivial remark
about the view. "Yes, the upper foliage looks promising," she replied.
"I should like to go for a walk, when Fred comes back. I love to come
in touch with the grand old trees that have sheltered generation after
generation of a vanishing race. Ah! if one could only capture and
interpret the mystery locked up in those stately giants! Just think,
Mr Collins, what a landmark in history this era of transition will
seem in the far future, and how precious every relic of Aboriginal
lore will be then!" There was no sign of gush in her subdued and
almost reluctant discourse. But she was evidently a thinker, and was
now thinking aloud. Poor old Fred!

"Yes," said I helplessly; "the tree is generally the oldest
inhabitant."

"But there is one thing that lasts longer than the tree," she
rejoined, with deference in her tone, though with authority in her
calm grey eyes--"that is, the spoken word, the appellation. The
Aboriginal name of this town will probably outlive any tree in
Australia. Strange, isn't it-to think that a word, impalpable to touch
and invisible to sight, should be more enduring and reliable than any
material monument? The history of nations--their migrations,
settlements, conquests-can be traced by the philologist far back into
ages which afford little or no clue to the antiquarian. Yet in spite
of the paramount significance of local designations-or, perhaps
because of it-the map of this young land is already defaced by ugly
and incongruous names, transplanted from the other side of the world."

"I agree with every word you say," I replied, resolutely banishing from
my mind all unavailing compassion for Fred, and collecting my own mental
resources in sordid self-defence. "To my mind, the immigrant who
disgraces an Australian river, or mountain, or town-site, or locality of
any kind, with the name of his own insanitary European birthplace is
guilty of a presumption which amounts to unpardonable impudence. And
there seems to be no limit to this effrontery. For instance, when I was
a small boy, a township was laid out in our vicinity. The authorities,
in Melbourne, courteously invited some local residents to suggest a new
name which would replace 'The Twelve-mile'. Mr Pritchard's father argued
persistently for 'Thorpe Mullock'; Steve Thompson's father urged
'Icklingham'; the Reverend Mr Tregurtha pleaded for 'Padstow'; and my
own father stoutly contended for 'Darrymacash'. However, the old police
magistrate happened just then to marry a young wife; and through his
influence the place was called Juliatown. Bad enough, but it might have
been worse. Ridiculous and silly as the name appears, it can scarcely be
called obscene."

"Fred often speaks of Juliatown, and of you," continued the lady after
a pause. "Tell me, Mr Collins, do you find much change in him since
you were boys together?"

"No change," I replied, with my habitual truthfulness. "Only the
ripened fulfilment of his early promise. I may tell you that, in the
olden days, we simply recognized his superiority and let it go at
that. In fact, he's gifted with a power that I've never yet seen
equalled."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," rejoined Mrs Pritchard, evidently
relieved. "I do admire a magnanimous spirit. But-speaking
confidentially-doesn't it seem strange to you that the world, against
its own interests, passes by men like Fred, and lavishes place and
power on mere nobodies?"

"Not more strange than true, however," I replied, veiling my
bewilderment under a sympathetic air. "And---apart from the injustice
perpetrated-society, in so doing, sustains a loss."

"Yes; but, you see, Mr Collins, the sin of society, in this case, is
visited on the victim, as well as on society itself. I should like to
see society suffer the whole penalty. Of course, you can reason the
question out dispassionately, while I feel the injustice day by day,
as I see condemned to inaction hands that the rod of empire might have
swayed."

"Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre," I rejoined thoughtfully; and I
maintain, even now, that my quotation was the more apt of the
two-heartless, maybe, but just a desperate grip at something tangible in
this chaotic situation. "I fancy that Gray himself was much like Fred in
some ways," she continued, with appalling artlessness--

"Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune; He had not the
method of making a fortune."

"My old schoolmate always appeared to be half-unconscious of his own
superiority," I suggested, avoiding her eyes. "And the egotism which
he lacks is often an important element in success. Bacon knew this
when he depicted his Julius Caesar as possessing in an extraordinary
degree only two qualities-an unerring knowledge of human nature, and
an unbounded self-esteem. Let a man devoutly and constantly believe in
himself, and he will find a multitude of others to believe in him
also. There's something in the prayer of the Presbyterian minister,--
'Lord, gie's a gude conceit o' oorsel's!' Anyway, I can sympathize
with anyone who labours under the moral defect of diffidence."

"I should scarcely say that Fred's comparative obscurity is owing to
any moral defect," replied the infatuated woman, with a black-and-tan
fidelity more touching than grief itself. "It is attributable, I
think, to the overflowing of those higher qualities which are so
little appreciated in the great world; a kind of chivalrous audacity
which shocks and frightens humdrum people. Now, if the Emperor
Napoleon's advisers had given Fred an independent command, during the
Franco-German War, he would certainly have turned the scale in favour
of France, and prevented the disaster to the Imperial family. His
youth was the only objection; but they should have remembered
Alexander of Macedon. That is only one instance; but the same
blindness to Fred's evident ability has prevailed everywhere. I am
happy to notice, however, that, in each case where he has been
slighted, those who undervalued him have suffered for it afterward."

By this time, I had passed that uncertain line where amused
astonishment ends, and compassionate pain begins; and it seemed to me
that my theory of the feminine vally-de-sham ought to be stated as
subject to certain exceptions. Whilst thinking about this, and
apparently brooding over the world's non-appreciation of Fred, I
heard, outside, that hero's voice in measured narration. Looking
through the open window, I saw him and Bob approach a veranda seat
just below. Bob was leading by the hand the loquacious Hereward, and
gently carrying the unconscious Sissy, who, though she had now reached
the limp and perspiring condition peculiar to childhood, still clung
to Bob with the tenacity of a native bear. Fred carried on his arm a
fine new stock saddle, with high, thin knee-pads, hollow seat and
raking pommel-one of the very few articles of merchandise which the
Fred of other days would have liked to be seen carrying along a public
street. They seated themselves comfortably, just under the window, and
the anecdote flowed on--

"--but, young as I was, I had enough personal experience to know that,
in fighting on horseback, the best rifle-shot is to the left, and the
best pistol-shot is to the rear. So, by Jove, I turned tail and
galloped for it. I could have left the bushrangers out of sight, for I
had a devilish good mare under me; but I wanted to keep them in range
of my revolver, and at the same time prevent them getting me on their
left.

"The chase lasted for about a mile; and I fired twice on each of the
fellows. The middle-aged man with the monkey beard fired three shots,
and the Irishman, four. They shot devilish well under the
circumstances-one bullet went through the rim of my hat; another
through the sleeve of my coat; and a third cut the strap of my
mail-bag. The mail-bag dropped, of course, and, in the excitement of the
moment, I went on like the deuce for half a mile before I missed it.
By this time, my two black-faced friends were quite satisfied, and had
made their escape into some scrub. I rode back across the bridge, to
recover the mail; but deuce take me if I could find any trace of it--
thought the fellows had got it, after all. I went on to the post
office, to report the loss, and found the mail-bag there before me.
The postmaster afterward told me that Collins, here, and another young
fellow, named Steve Thompson, had found the bag, and brought it with
them. In fact, they were at the post office when I rode up. They had
heard the firing, but thought nothing of it, as the whole country used
to be out shooting on holidays."

"I know Steve Thompson well, an' by the same token I know him to be an
ole crony of Collins's," remarked Bob, struck by the undesigned
coherency of Fred's story. "But you didn't lay the bobbies onto them
misfortunate outlawrs?" he added deprecatingly.

"No, Mr Bruce, I didn't. Perhaps I should have done so; but, deuce
take me, I couldn't. They were my game. I had taken the mail-contract
just in the hope of meeting with some adventure of this kind. I was
full of devilment in those days. If I hadn't kept myself usefully
employed, I'd have been the terror of the country. No. On leaving the
post office, I gave Collins and Thompson the slip, went straight back
to the place where the chase had ended, and picked up the tracks of
the fellows' horses--"

"Wouldn't it be comin' on night by that time?" suggested Bob.

"And devilish dark, too," assented Fred. "But I had trained my mare to
run a scent like a bloodhound."

"She took me about a mile, and then stopped in a thicket of wild
raspberry bushes, at the foot of a precipice. Of course, I knew the
place well. The two horses were there, without saddles or bridles; and
deuce take me if I could make head or tail of it till I put my ear to
the ground and heard a sound of voices that seemed to come out of the
solid cliff before me. I crept under the raspberry bushes, pistol in
hand, and soon found myself feeling my way along a low, pitch-dark
passage. When I had gone about thirty yards, the passage opened into a
large cave, lighted by a slush-lamp. There I found my two bushrangers,
both badly wounded, and each lying helpless on his couch of dried
fern. Horribly grotesque they looked too, with their blackened faces."

"You may blame me, Mr Bruce; but I venture to say you would have done
the same as I did. I acted the Samaritan. I found that every one of my
bullets had told. The grey-bearded man-who, by the way, had once been
a captain in Her Majesty's 63rd Infantry; I would prefer not to
mention his name-he was hit in the right shoulder and the left knee;
but, knowing something of surgery, I managed to extract both bullets.
The Irishman, Terence Murphy, had received both my shots just below
the belt. Of course, there was no extracting those bullets; though the
poor devil was suffering the most excruciating agony. I did as you
would have done. I made the unfortunate scoundrels as comfortable as
possible-in fact, I attended on them every night for the next three
weeks, and saw that they wanted for nothing. By this time, the captain
was on his feet again; but poor Terry! Well, I had to ask him if I
could do anything to make his last hours easy. I don't know what creed
you profess, Mr Bruce; but I'm High Church; and I could see no harm in
granting the poor fellow's last request. I brought the local priest-at
midnight, of course-and next morning at grey dawn poor Terry passed
away, blessing me with his latest breath. I cried like a child."

Fred's voice failed as he recalled the scene; whereupon the late
lamented bushranger, leaning on the window--sill, made some trifling
remark to him about the weather, or the flies, or something. But it
was no use trying to get up a conversation with Fred just then. He had
found a listener of rarest qualities, and was as frankly independent
of his earlier friend as a half-grown boy is of his mother. And Mrs
Pritchard, having brought the bald-headed baby from her room, was
ostentatiously occupying herself with that imbecile, evidently in
order to add me to Fred's audience, for his honour and my own profit.

But it was a false position; so I listened without marking, whilst
listlessly noting the few people who passed along the quiet street.
One remarkably graceful woman attracted my attention; and I inwardly
moralized on the peculiar perversity of instinct which impelled an
apparently rational being to disfigure the symmetry of her form (you
remember the Hottentot fashion of those days?) by a hoop-iron
arrangement, shaped like a meat-cover. As is often the case with me,
the thought shaped itself into verse:

Worth makes the man, the want of it the fellow; But Worth makes the
woman a perfect Punchinello.

A mere nothing-almost English in point of wit, and probably the
thousandth quibble on a well-advertised name. I wouldn't think of
recording such a trifle but that it has to do with my story; for I
must have smiled at the conceit; at all events, Hereward, who was
squatted on the seat with his back toward me, suddenly whirled round
and demanded: "Wass you laughin' at, Tom?"

"Hereward!" exclaimed his mother. "You must say 'Mr Collins'."

"Well, I won't. Tell me wass you laughin' at, Tom?"

"At an epigram, Hereward."

"Where it is? See it to me! I never see one. Where did it go?" And his
quick eyes darted excitedly over the window--sill and curtains. "Where
did it go, Tom? Is it a hairy fing, wif many feet? I want-a see ghat
epigram."

"It's no good of a thing, Hereward. See, here's a pocket-knife I got
for you. Mind you don't cut yourself."

"Fank you, sir. Say, Tom,-ghat big, spindly, green dog, sleepin' on
ghem bags-does he b'long to you?"

"Yes, dear."

"Wass hees name?"

"Pup."

"Ghat's a devilish good name."

"You shouldn't say that word, dear."

"Ghat's Pa's word. Did you buy ghat dog wif white money, Tom?"

"Yes, dear."

"Who did you buy him from?"

"From a cockie."

"Where did ghat cockie get him from?"

"Made him, probably."

"I folt God made everyfing. How much money did you give ghat cockie
for him?"

"Three notes."

"Hereward, lovey, come in here," said his mother, meekly yet
impressively. "I want you."

"No, I won't; I'm talkin' to Tom.'

"Do, please, let him alone, Mrs Pritchard," said I. "We're getting on
very well together."

"Is he a good dog, Tom?"

"Yes, dear; he's one of the very best.'

"But what is he good for?"

"Heaven only knows, Hereward; I'm sure I don't."

"I want-a fine ghat cockie; he might have some moe dogs made. Do you
know where Essendon is, Tom?"

"Yes, dear."

"Ghat's where we live! We been savin' up money such a lot of Sundays
to pay-a man for givin' us a ride to ghis place. Ghat's-a man-a says
'Tickets, please'. Have you got much money, Tom?"

"See that high chimney, Hereward!" I replied desperately, for there
was suppressed agony in the mother's voice and manner as she crooned
her baby to sleep.

"Wass ghat fork on top o' ghat chimley for, Tom?"

"For catching the lightning, dear."

"But what does it do wif-a lightnin'?"

"Sends it into the ground."

"An' how does it get up on top-a a chimley again?"

Before I could frame a reply, he suddenly asked, "Wess-a end o' ghat
river, Tom?"

"At the sea, Hereward."

"But wess-a nother end? Is it stuck in-a sea too?"

"No; it's away among the mountains."

"But what does it do among-a mountains? Does it go over-a top?-or does
it grop down a crack?"

Without waiting for my answer, he re-seated himself with some
violence, and instantly lapsed into reverie. Again I was alone.
Leaning on the window--sill, I looked out, and gave ear unto another
anecdote which Fred was relating to Bob.-"-perfect stranger to most of
the chaps, and only a visitor at the station, I didn't like to make
myself too conspicuous, though I longed to be at it. However, this
brindled steer tore round the yard at such a deuce of a rate that none
of the fellows could get near him-"

"'Open the rails, and let him go!' says the manager--nice, gentlemanly
fellow, but a perfect devil to swear--'I don't give a-'"

"Kids," murmured Bob hastily.

"Thank you, Mr Bruce. I admire your scruples; but I'm on my guard. 'I
don't give one etcetera,' says the manager, 'if we never see the
etcetera again! Let the etcetera go!'"

"However, the steer didn't want permission. He took a race at the
fence-close on seven feet high-and cleared it, by Jove! like a bird.
But while he was making the spring, I snatched up a rope, noosed at
one end, and called to some of the fellows to take a turn of the other
end round a post. Then, just as the steer rose over the fence, I
launched out my slack; and just as he touched the ground outside, I
tightened the loop round his horns. But the fellows hadn't been smart
enough in taking a turn with the other end; so away went the steer
like the very devil, with the rope fairly whistling through the grass
behind him-"

"'Well,' says the manager, 'I've been among cattle for five and thirty
etcetera years; but I'll be etcetera well etcetera if I ever saw a
thing so neatly done!'"

"Nor me, nyther," said Bob simply.

"I was always a hot-headed, thoughtless fool," continued Fred, in
tones of self-scorn; "and now I could see that I was throwing away a
devilish good rope, through a little boyish bravado. No sooner did
this cross my mind than I found myself on the manager's blood horse,
flying after the steer like the very deuce. You've never been in East
Gippsland, I think you said, Mr Bruce? No. Well, if you should ever
visit Muddy-gong station, you'll notice a single tree on the plain,
about a mile from the stockyard-east, or perhaps a little to the north
of east. I headed the steer for this tree; and just as he passed it, I
stooped down and caught hold of the rope--"

"Full rip?" queried Bob, almost incredulously.

"Full rip. And then, quick as thought, I wheeled my horse twice round
the tree, and brought the steer up standing. Then I jumped off, to
make the rope fast; and when the steer saw me on foot, he charged me
like a flash of lightning."

"Bet yer life on that lot," assented Bob.

"You're right, Mr Bruce. I can see you're no novice in these affairs.
But, as I was telling you, the steer charged me. I dodged round the
tree, and he gave chase. I could have shinned up the tree like a cat,
but then he would have unwound the rope, and got away; so there was
nothing for it but to run round the tree, winding on the rope as fast
as he took it off. This lasted for fifteen or twenty minutes, with the
steer a couple of yards behind me; and then--"

"How long was the rope, Fred?" I asked involuntarily.

"About fifty feet, I should think, Tom.-And then, by Jove! he gave it
best, and stood with his tongue out, staring at me. I made the rope
fast, caught my horse, and cantered back to the stockyard in a much
better humour. They wanted the steer for a worker, so they shoved a
yoke on him where he stood."

"Turned out one of the best bullocks in Gippsland, the manager
afterwards told me. Broke his neck, at last, poling a portable engine
down a hill on the Walhalla road. Try this brand of cigar, Mr Bruce; I
think you'll like it."

Mr Bruce, who, like the average bushman, instinctively shrank from
saying "Thank you", took the cigar without phrases; and, whilst trying
it, deferentially related a little adventure of his own-how, upon one
occasion, in a lonely place, he was trying to turn a single steer--how
he had to fall in behind the steer for a hundred yards, on account of
a belt of mallee-how, while his stockwhip was dancing on the steer's
back, the latter came down-how his horse went heels-over-tip across
the prostrate beast, breaking his own neck in the fall, and afterward
lying with all his weight on the narrator's leg-how that tight-placed
son of adversity, believing all the time that his own leg was broken,
spent the rest of the day mining under the imprisoned limb with his
pocket knife, before he got clear; and then, though lame as a cat, had
to carry his saddle and bridle twelve or fifteen mile. Bob related
this experience with the apologetic air of some obscure literary
aspirant reading a little thing of his own to the greatest author of
the age; and Fred listened with the flattering attention of the same
great author storing up material for his next work.

Here Hereward, rousing from his meditations, complained to Bob of
thirst, intimating, however, that the craving was not for water, but
for "moe lemonaig". So the three stepped across to an adjacent pub,
leaving the saddle on the seat, and handing the somnolent Sissy to me
through the window.

It was instructive to notice how Bob, having allowed and encouraged
Fred to set himself on the pedestal of eminence, felt his own blind
faith in no way shaken by the extreme steepness of his hero's yarns.
Bob's face always indicated his current thought, just as the sky
betokens the passing weather; and now its settled expression denoted
that, notwithstanding his life-long experience, he critically
attributed to his own defective apprehension all apparent
incongruities in Fred's stories. And yet I question whether this
semi-barbarian was much softer-headed than your serpent-wise self,
though his credulity might run in a different line.

For instance. When the sparrow--brained scribe of your favourite
loyalist journal twitters joyously to the effect that the King of
Yvetot, or the Prince of Old Sarum-whom you know to be, in every
respect, considerably below mediocrity-is not only an unrivalled
statesman, general, orator, poet, artist, scientist etc., but is also
the greatest athlete, horseman, yachtsman etc. on this unworthy dab of
muck-doesn't your plush-clad soul pour itself forth in hosannas? Come
now! Of course, you could see through Fred right enough; but then, Bob
could see through your king or prince just as clearly. The fact is,
that authority or precedence, however ridiculous, being once accepted
and enthroned, is apt to paralyse judgment. There is an unnoted
undercurrent of significance in the confession:--"All we, like sheep,
have gone astray." Like sheep! Ay, heaven help thee, cross-bred
jumbuck! Amen.

When the Buln-buln and Brolga returned to their seat, I looked through
the window and proposed a walk along the river. Fred assented, and
came round into the parlour, with Bob and Hereward. Mrs Pritchard took
the latter and Sissy away to give them a general freshening up; and
presently we went forth like Brown's cows (as the saying is).

Bob, with Sissy again asleep on his arm, was still rapt in the moving
accidents of all descriptions so accurately related by his adventurous
companion. On the other side of Fred walked his spell-bound wife; and I,
neglect and oppressed, brought up the rear, carrying the bald-headed
bambino, now wrapped in a shawl like a silkworm in its cocoon. Hereward
pattered along beside me, conducting a severe cross-examination on
general subjects, abruptly varied now and then by the ventilation of
what he conceived to be a grievance, namely, that I had failed to call
his attention to the epigram before it got away. Once, in filling and
lighting my pipe, I inadvertently changed the position of the
cigar-shaped roll which contained the slumbering papoose. Mrs Pritchard
was by my side in an instant, her quick maternal eye having observed
that I was carrying the cocoon with the wrong end uppermost.

Otherwise, I got on very well.

We returned as night was setting in. After tea, we were again found in
the little parlour. Hereward had talked himself to sleep, and was
folded, shapeless and invertebrate, on my knees. Sissy was in the same
condition on Bob's knees. Mrs Pritchard took them away in rotation,
and disposed of them for the night. Fred was still bringing forth out
of his treasury twisters old and new, whilst Bob ministered comment
and question, innocently seconding the narrator to the top of his
bent. I heard them, but I heeded not; for, drifting into a Hamlet-mood,
I was contemplating the boneless mollusc which Mrs Pritchard had
left in my charge; and though, as a rule, I don't care about children
till they are old enough to stagger about, this one supplied as good
fodder for my thinking faculties to work upon as it would have done
for the digestive apparatus of my not very remote ancestors. Aeons of
memory seemed to roll back in dreamy retrospect, till I fancied myself
older than the satrapies of Victoria or Queensland; and I recalled the
bygone days when I used to incur the displeasure of mothers and
nurse-girls by stoutly and conscientiously repudiating their allegation
that I was once a baby myself. And now, as I viewed the cheap angel-gift,
blinking and slobbering on my knees, I renewed my protest against the
impeachment-a protest which still remains in good working order. I
admit that I was once a boy, even as young as Hereward; but a
contentedly incapable, bald-headed baby, without a vestige of manners
or self-respect; with creases round my wrists, and only two rodent-like
teeth in the centre of my mouth-No, no-pardon me!--no, no.

"Thank you, Mr Collins," said the lady sweetly, as she took delivery
of the interesting object, and seated herself in the arm-chair which I
placed for her. "I've imposed upon your good-nature this evening; but
you must remember that you were once a baby yourself. Mr Bruce, I
suppose, is familiar with Aboriginal babies. How I should like to see
one of the dear little things. They must be very interesting."

"Well, no; they ain't," replied Bob respectfully. "Same time, I've
knowed white women to give a good price for very small piccaninnies.
Course, wild lubras won't part with their kids at no price."

"How dreadful to think of a mother selling her child!" murmured the
lady.

"Not so bad, from a right-thinkin' point o' view, as a blackfeller
sellin' his lubra; an' that's common occurrence," rejoined Bob. "Low
figure, very often. Happened to see a bargain struck las' year.
Manager of Yarralong-nice feller as you'd meet in a week's travellin'--
he bought a big, handsome, young lubra from her ole man, out an' out,
for thirty bob cash an' a couple o' notes in second-hand truck."

"And even that," I observed involuntarily, "was probably as much as
poor Mr Inkle obtained for Yarico."

(This remark was merely the incidental outcrop of a habit which the
censorious reader may have already noticed-a habit of airing some
scrap of unhackneyed information, apparently, though not actually,
with a view to effect. Immoral as the practice is, and pert as it may
seem to the unbookish critic, I hold it to be far less reprehensible
than the converse impropriety of writing for full-grown people in the
painfully simple manner so often affected in literature intended for
the "masses".

Believe me, any genial pedant that casually assumes you to know who
Oliver Cromwell was-when, in point of fact, you neither know nor want
to know--is an angel of light compared with the transparent prig who,
in simple sentences and words of one syllable contends (as in a book
lying before me now) that the landlord is the greatest of all
benefactors, seeing that to him the tenant owes his hovel, his pig-sty,
his hen-house-in a word, his foot-hold on the crust of this
planet. Distrust the presumptuous snob who avowedly writes down to an
implied standard of adult information or intelligence, thus adding the
insult of condescension to the injury of sinister purpose. Not that I
by any means defend the systematic pundit. I only hold him to be a
less culpable poseur than the driveller who glories in his puerility.

However, this habit of mine was acquired early in life, when my chief
ambition was to emulate, or even excel, Macaulay's erudite
"schoolboy". Now, like Fred's practice of lying, it simply comes
natural. So unless you are unreasonable enough to feel affronted with
a white gum for its manner of shedding bark which it has done with, I
don't see how you can consistently resent my style of dropping a few
sporadic cylinders from my branches. In conversation, this habit
sometimes does me good service in enchaining the attention of a
restive listener; but again, there are instances in which I have been
hoist with my own encyclopaedic petard. A most unfortunate mishap of
this kind occurred during the evening I am now endeavouring to recall.
I shall draw your attention to it at the proper time and place. Go to,
then.)

The conversation being turned in the direction of Aboriginal life,
Bob, of course, was soon pulling stroke; Mrs Pritchard listening with
vivid interest.

After some time, the bushman seemed to feel himself looming too
conspicuously in the foreground; and his low, impassive monotone came
to an awkward stop.

"But, Mr Bruce," said the lady eagerly, "aren't the poor creatures
often treated cruelly by new settlers?"

"It's this way, mem," replied Bob humbly. "Course, the New South Wales
blackfellers is all right now--what's left o' them-but when you git at
the Queensland fellers in their raw state, you'll mostly fine some
bullies among 'em-same as among whitefellers-an' it's these bullies
makes all the mischief; an' when you disperse them, then the rest o'
the tribe's quiet. If there was no bullies among the blackfellers,
they wouldn't want dispersin'. White bullies wants dispersin' too."

"I happen to have done a little of that in my time," remarked Fred, in
his genial way. "You remember Wesley Tregurtha, Tom? You remember that
when his father was removed to another circuit, he was articled to
Courtenay, and afterward-just before I went to England-got into
trouble over a cheque?"

"I remember it well," I replied. "My father and Steve Thompson's
father went bail for him; but he shook the dust off his feet, and a
very good horse out of our paddock, and withdrew quietly before the
Sessions came on."

"And you never heard of him since?"

"Never a word."

"I should think not. I can give you the latest intelligence of the
poor devil. But I beg your pardon, Mr Bruce; you were speaking."

"No; nothing particular," replied Bob uneasily. "I was on'y goin' to
say it don't do blackfellers any good to civilize 'em. There's no
gittin' over the fact that people naturally inclines to sin, an'
wickedness, an' rascality-blackfellers an' whitefellers, jist the
same-an' civilizin' makes people worse. I of'en go in for workin' out
this class of idears in my own head. All these latest improvements;
an' the people as thick as ants; an' a bobby every fifty yards-furder
you look into them, the more you'll get disgusted at seein' things
drawed out so fine till there's nothing but selfishness an'
man-eatin', with a bit of toffishness an' foolish yabber to set it off."
He paused in confusion. What if his hearers should do him the
injustice of applying these general strictures to themselves?

"Yes, Mr Bruce," sighed the lady; "we boast of our civilization, but
the trail of the serpent is over it all."

Bob's face revealed a manly pity, taking the place of apprehension;
for Mrs Pritchard's vague and irrelevant reference to the lower
creation was a touching illustration of foolish yabber. But the
chivalrous bushman would see her through.

"You're right, missus," said he, with simulated thoughtfulness. "The
serpent's a very good instance of pure divilmint. An' see how birds
goes in for swearin', as soon as they git civilized. I noticed that
very forcible one time, long ago, on the Lachlan. I don't blame a bird
at a shanty for swearin'; but this time me an' Bat was mindin' a
paddick with a bad fence; an' we got a galah an' kep' it at the hut
where on'y the two of us was stoppin'. Well, as soon as that bird got
civilized, he'd waken up every mornin', reg'lar, with an oath in his
mouth; an' whenever he seen us, he'd keep rippin' it out for his own
amusement. He was a hard case; an' he's on'y jist a fair sample. Good
job birds has no souls."

He paused, and sighed sadly, gazing into the fireplace. Presently he
proceeded in a husky tone, and with averted face.

"Wonder if God takes to a person that repented, so's you got a bit of
a show to shove in a good word for anybody that ain't got the slant to
repent? I knocked off swearin', myself, over a year ago. Before that,
it'd 'a' made the hair stand on your head to hear me comin' out."

"Oh no, Mr Bruce!" exclaimed the lady. "Fact, missus," replied Bob
abjectly. "When things used to go crooked, I'd jist go ramsackin' my
mind for something real venomous-couldn't git enough satisfaction out
o' common swearin'. But I didn't have no trouble knockin' it off; not
half what I expected. Knockin' off swearin's on'y child's play
compared to knockin' off lyin'. Six or eight year ago, I was the
fearfullest liar unhung."

I hazarded a lighting glance round the company. Fred was observing
with good-humoured interest the wincing of this galled jade under the
burden of remorse. His withers were unwrung. And I read in the winning
face of his wife nothing but overflowing sympathy, with a touch of
suppressed amusement.

"We was talkin' about blackfellers," continued Bob, recalling himself.
"I'd jist put it this way; it's wrong to be too hard on the pore
beggars; an' it don't do to be too soft with 'em. I seen one little
instance, the fust time me an' Bat was up north. Tell you how it come--

"Me and Bat was ridin' in by our two selves from Drumclog, in
Queensland; an' it was always safe to have a rifle with you about that
quarter; an' we was layin' out to stop all night at Yandaree. Well,
gittin' on in the afternoon, an' us dodgin' up to the back o' the
station, we hears the crack of a gun, an' then another crack. Course,
we thought nothing of it; but I'll tell you what was takin' place at
the time--

"The man that owned the station-nice feller he is, as you'd meet in a
week's travellin'-he'd on'y been there a couple or three months; an'
he'd come from a part where the blackfellers was quiet as sheep, on
account of all the rumbumptious fellers gittin' dispersed. Well, this
Moorfield had jist shifted his fambly to Yandaree; an' this afternoon
he was at home, doin' a bit o' carpenter work; an' his missus she was
pokin' about the house; an' the kids was playin' under a tree at the
back door; an' Miss Moorfield she was sittin' in the front veranda,
readin' a book; an' the servant girl was moochin' round as usual; an'
the couple or three hands was away that day at the joinin' station,
helpin' to muster. There was a whole swag o' blackfellers had come
into a deep holler, half a mile away, but they was supposed to be
tame-though, mind you, they hadn't got their Marys or piccaninnies
with 'em.

"Well, Miss Moorfield she hears a 'Woh!' an' she sees a big buck
blackfeller comin' along solitary, with three or four spears. She
didn't altogether like the looks of him, bein'-well, bein' jist in his
skin, so to speak; an' she was goin' inside; an' he lets fly a spear
at her. It didn't hit her, but it nailed the gown-part of her frock to
the wall; an' she makes a dart for the door, leavin' half her frock
stickin' on the spear; an' in she bolts, an' slaps the door shut
behind her. Broad daylight, if you please!

"Course, Moorfield, he got excited; an' he collars holt of his rifle,
an' runs out on the veranda--

"'Clear off!' he sings out; an' he levels his rifle at the
blackfeller. The blackfeller he stopped, but he wouldn't clear off-not
frightened enough. He knowed who he'd got to deal with. That's the
grand secret, missus.

"'Clear off!' says Moorfield agen; an' he fires a shot over the
blackfeller's head. Rotten bad line. The blackfeller he runs back a
bit, an' then comes forrid slowly. Moorfield he presents his rifle,
an' the blackfeller laughs. Both o' them killin' time; but the
blackfeller was gainin', hand over fist-on'y Moorfield couldn't see
it.

"Well, this style o' thing was goin' on when me an' Bat come so as we
could see across a bit of a rise at the back o' the station. We pulls
up, an' looks at one another.

"'Blackfellers!' says Bat. 'Jist in time.'

"'There's my dream out!' says I.

"'Holy snake! you're right,' says Bat. That was the pore feller's
favourite word. Sort o' technical phrase. 'If we scoot up the bed o'
the creek,' says he, 'we'll git a sittin' shot to start with.'

"So it was no time before we was dartin' up through the back garden,
layin' on our horses' necks-an' the fun of it was that the
blackfellers was watchin' every road but that one, in case the station
hands might be turnin' up.

"'Thank God! thank God!' says Mrs Moorfield, when she seen us; an' her
as white as a sheet, an' her arms round the whole bunch o' kids.

"We fetches our horses right into the back veranda, behind some
creepers, an' walks into the house, an' looks through the winder o'
the front room. Moorfield he was standin' in the door; an' there was
the blackfeller laughin' an' dancin'; an' ten to fifteen more
blackfellers sneakin' up from one cover to another, half-game an'
half-frightened. Bat he lifts the winder about two inches, an' drops
on one knee-that bein' his favourite style, pore feller.

"'Don't shed blood till you can't help it,' says Moorfield. 'Jist keep
him at a distance for one minute more, to give him a chance. I always
been on the best o' terms with the blacks,' says he. 'If you kill that
feller, we'll have to fight the whole tribe.'

"'Ain't you got to fight the whole tribe now?' says Bat. 'You ain't
looked round yet. But you want to let this bloke hear the bizz o' the
bullet. Watch here'-an' he lets drive.

"The blackfeller he jumps up about two foot, or mebbe two foot an' a
half; an' flaps down on his face."

"Then other blackfellers that we'd never seen a sight of, not to
mention the ones we had noticed, they began to show up everywhere, but
they all walked off to the nearest brigalow. Fact, they run; for I
lined two o' them, an' got one out o' the two; then Bat he missed the
next one; an' I rolled another feller over, but he crep' away among
some bushes. Then we both wasted a couple o' shots, through bein' in
too great a hurry. Then Bat--he was wonderful quick, pore ole Bat!-he
lames another feller; an' away scoots the rest o' the mob, takin' all
the cover that come in their road. You see, missus, when the bully o'
the tribe was dispersed, the others was like a swarm o' bees with no
queen. Course, me an' Bat we jumped on our horses agen, an' started
the whole drove across the country, till our rifles was too hot to
handle-for we'd no end o' cartridges. Providence sent us round that
road, for a certainty."

"Still, you'll hear people sayin' there's nothing in dreams."

"Did you dream of this adventure beforehand, Mr Bruce?" asked the
lady, with vivid solicitude.

"Tell you what I dreamed the very night before. I dreamed I was
fishin' in a sort o' black lagoon, baitin' with bits o' water-melon,
an' pullin' out fish with blackfellers' heads on' em."

"But wasn't there some danger of the survivors plotting revenge?"
asked the lady, after a pause.

"Well, no. The fust blackfeller was dead, an' that was the main
object; dead as a nit; with the hole between his shoulders where the
bullet come through." He hesitated a moment, with the uneasy
consciousness of something unappetizing in this post-mortem evidence;
then, turning his soft, Byronic eyes on the lady's face, he resumed in
a coldly scientific spirit. "Curious thing about the Martin-Henry-you
can hardly poke your finger in the hole where the bullet goes in at,
but you could shove your fist in the place where she comes out."

Then a troubled look, and a despondent mal-du-mulga sigh, bespoke the
sensitive barbarian's appreciation of the lady's half-averted face and
my stony silence.

"While Mr Bruce was speaking of bullies, I thought of Wesley
Tregurtha," said Fred, turning to me. "Do you know, I never could
overcome my dislike to that boy. You may remember how I used to
trounce him on the slightest possible pretext, or on no pretext
whatever? Sometimes he resisted, too! I've known that boy, Mr Bruce,
to fight till he could neither see nor stand. Upon my honour, I have.
Poor devil! his end was a terrible one. It's a painful story, Tom, but
I think it will interest you."

"I'm sure it will," I replied, flinching under the honest eyes of the
past master.

"It was-let's see-in August '71," continued Fred. "I was coming back
to Victoria, from England, in the Aurungzebe-1500 tons-George
Butterworth, master. One morning, at daylight-it was the tenth of
August--I heard a rap at my cabin door.

"'Come in,' says I; and in comes Stokes, the mate, with a long face--"

"Your mate?" asked Bob, hiding his misery under an affectation of
critical interest.

Mrs Pritchard bent toward the last speaker while she courteously
explained the rating of ships' crews; and straightway a sense of
returning self-respect threw sunshine over that incongruously lengthy
effigy which contained Bob.

"'Serious matter, Mr Falkland-Pritchard, I'm afraid,' says Stokes.
'We're chased by a suspicious looking sail.'

"'Probably a brother to our Mediterranean friend,' says I, referring
to an incident of a few weeks before. 'Don't disturb me, please. I'm
sleepy this morning. Call the old man.'

"'Tanked up, as usual,' says Stokes. 'All the responsibility is on my
shoulders. For heaven's sake, let me have your assistance.'

"I dressed myself, and went on deck. About a mile to windward, I saw a
wicked-looking craft, schooner rigged, keeping the weather gauge of
us, and decreasing her distance every moment. I should have told you
that the Aurungzebe was a sailing vessel.

"'She declines to answer our signals; what do you make of her?' says
Stokes, handing me a glass."

"Livens a man up wonderful, fust thing in the mornin'," observed Bob
approvingly.

"One look was sufficient. The long, low hull was bristling with the
muzzles of cannon, showing through the open ports," continued Fred,
while a flash of intelligence passed over Bob's face, followed by a
wave of colour.

"'What shall we do, Mr Falkland-Pritchard?' says Stokes.

"'Call up the watch below, and batten down the hatchways,' says I.
'Let us keep the passengers out of the way, and out of danger at the
same time.'

"Just then a puff of smoke rose from one of the forward ports of the
schooner, and a shot whistled across our bows.

"'Couldn't the Aurungzebe get away from her, if you had the weather
gauge, and the wind on your quarter?' says I.

"'Not a doubt of it,' says Stokes-'if we had a lead of a mile.'
"'Heave to, and speak her, then,' says I. 'I'll be with you in a
moment.'

"I darted into my cabin, and slipped on an undress uniform, together
with a splendid sword, presented to me by the Emperor of the French.
Then I returned on deck. By this time, the schooner was hove to, half
a cable's length to windward, commanding us with her guns. Stokes was
waiting for me. I took the speaking-trumpet from his hand--

"'Ship ahoy!' I called out. 'Who are you?'

"'Surrender, or I'll sink you!' was the answer, in a voice I thought I
recognized. It was the pirate captain--quite a young fellow. All the
crew seemed to be Malays. My resolution was taken at once.

"'I'm willing to surrender,' says I, speaking through the trumpet. 'As
a guarantee of good faith, I'll go on board your ship alone. Now,
Stokes,' says I, 'man your halyards immediately, and the moment you
see me board that vessel, put your helm hard a-port, clap on every
stitch of sail you can carry, and cross her stern. Then show her a
clean pair of heels, and go like the deuce.'"

"You foolish, mad-headed thing!" murmured the desperado's wife, in a
trembling voice.

"I jumped into the gig--"

"Jumped into the gig," repeated Bob deprecatingly. Again his
ministering angel explained, evidently finding relief in the
distraction.

"-I jumped into the gig as she touched the water, and pulled across to
the schooner. A rope-ladder was lowered, and in half a minute I was on
deck. The pirate captain came forward.

"'Permit me to introduce myself,' says I, with a deceit which may be
forgiven under the circumstances--'Captain George Butterworth, of the
ship Aurungzebe, at your service.'

"As the words left my lips, there was a creaking, rushing, hissing
sound; and the Aurungzebe dashed across the schooner's wake, showing
one cloud of canvas from t'-galla'-m'st to deck, and every inch of it
drawing hard.

"'Treachery!' yelled the pirate captain; and he rushed upon me, sword
in hand. Now comes the surprising part of my story-a part which, for
certain reasons, I have been in the habit of suppressing. I never
forget a face I have once seen; and in the pirate captain I
recognized-whom do you think, Tom?"

"I couldn't guess."

"Then, by Jove, I recognized Wes Tregurtha! and he fairly foamed at
the mouth as he recognized me."

"'I've caught you at last, Falkland-Pritchard!' he hissed through his
clenched teeth."

"'And take my word for it, my good fellow, you've caught a Tartar!'
says I, laughing. Then our blades crossed."

"By Jove, it was splendid! I had proved more than a match for the most
skilful fencing-masters in France, but, deuce take me, I seemed to
have met my equal at last."

"The other blokes they never interfered?" suggested Bob, with docile
interest. "Asiatics are peculiarly susceptible to panic," I remarked
in explanation.

"I am no theorist," continued Fred candidly; "all I know is that they
didn't interfere. They stood huddled together in the bow of the ship,
watching Tregurtha and myself, as we stood, foot to foot; our blades
bending and quivering, and crossing like flashes of lightning, while
the spray of sparks flew like the very devil from both weapons. I soon
saw that the game was in my own hands, for neither of us could gain
one point on the other, and it would simply be a question of
endurance. However, busy as I was, I noticed the sky turning black as
ink; and, looking over Tregurtha's shoulder, I saw, along the western
horizon, a thin line, like a thread of silver. Then I noticed a low,
moaning sound that soon increased to a deafening roar; and the sky
turned blacker, and the thin, white line grew broader and brighter;
coming across the dark water with the speed of a race-horse. By Jove,
it was a white squall!"

"Go to (sheol)!" murmured the rapt bushman.

"All this time, the duel went on. Tregurtha began to give way. I could
have cut him down, but, deuce take me, I thought of old times.
Suddenly the squall struck the schooner with the force of an
avalanche."

"The sheets snapped like threads of twine; the two masts went by the
board; and I found myself swimming for my life. I saw the mainmast
floating beside me, and I managed to get astride of it. Then, looking
through the blinding spray, I saw a man slowly drag himself out of the
water and sit on the other end of the mast. It was Tregurtha. He crept
toward me without speaking. When he approached within ten or twelve
feet, we both prepared for a contest which could leave only one
survivor. I saw him coolly draw a long Venetian dagger, and throw the
steel sheath into the sea. I was unarmed. He still crept on like a
tiger, watching me with murder in his eyes. Nearer-nearer-till we were
only a yard apart; then he sprung on me. Quick as lightning, I caught
his wrist, and endeavoured to wrench the weapon from his grasp. At
last, struggling desperately as we were, and the mast pitching and
rolling like the devil, his dagger-point struck him full in the body"--
here the narrator laid his hand tenderly upon his own stomach in
illustration--"the glass blade snapped off at the hilt, and the fight
was over."

Bob drew a long breath. The lady's face was white as chalk. I was
listening with genuine admiration.

You will notice that Fred's power lay largely in the quality of
compatibility, or congruity. You would never hear him say, like your
first-person-singular novelist-liar, "my blood ran cold"--"I was
unnerved with terror"--"I never was so frightened in my life"--or words
to similar purport. He could see the inconsistency. With the instinct
of genius, he perceived that the genuine hero, relating his little
adventure, never descends to that sort of palaver, simply because
attested courage neither knows nor needs any such paltry foil. (Good
counsel, marry; learn it, learn it, marquess.)

"I watched the poor devil's agonies with a horrible fascination,"
continued Fred sadly. "His convulsions broke the blade into fragments;
and the barbed splinters worked their way, through his body. He tried
to throw himself into the sea, but he was entangled among the ropes,
like a fish in a net. What the deuce could I do? I knew the
unfortunate wretch would live for days; and already half a dozen
albatrosses had gathered round him, and were going for his eyes. I
couldn't bear to see it. By this time the squall had blown over, and
it was a clock calm. I saw the Aurungzebe about two miles eastward,
with all her sails and half her spars carried away. The schooner,
being broadside on to the squall, had gone down with all hands. I
stripped, and swam for the ship, reaching her, I should think, in
about two hours. Bad news awaited me there. Poor Stokes and six of the
crew, including the second mate, had been killed or swept overboard
with the wreck of the spars and sails; and four more were hurt.
Captain Butterworth was still incapable. The first thing I did, of
course, was to liberate the passengers. They were in a terrible state
of alarm; the women fainting and screaming--"

"You'd got another shoot o' toggery?" suggested Bob uneasily.

"Oh, certainly! But as I didn't want to cause consternation or
excitement, I kept the affair of the pirate ship from the passengers,
and instructed the crew to do the same. In all probability, very few
of them know anything-or, at least, anything definite-about it at the
present time. They only know that they were shut down below during a
squall in the Indian Ocean."

"How small the world is, after all!" I remarked, turning to Mrs
Pritchard, whilst inwardly thanking heaven for a rarely conducive
coincidence. "I remember the disaster to the Aurungzebe, though I had
little idea that Fred was so deeply involved in it. The incident
attracted my notice at the time, because it was fully detailed in a
Melbourne weekly which constituted my sole reading matter for a month.
Butterworth lost his certificate over it. But according to the
evidence, he was a drunken lunatic."

"Drink was his bane," assented Fred, with a retrospective sigh.
"However, upon this occasion, I got him sobered up after a time, and
managed to keep him pretty straight for the rest of the voyage. For a
week or so, I had to navigate the ship myself; taking observations,
and writing up the log, and so forth. Butterworth's misfortune in
losing his certificate was nothing to the loss that I sustained over
the affair. What with the excitement of the moment, and the pain of
seeing my poor schoolmate suffering the horrible fate he had brought
upon himself, deuce take me if I didn't entirely forget that my whole
fortune was in the pockets of the undress uniform I threw off when I
left the mast to swim for the ship. Before leaving London, I had been
foolish enough to put all my money into Bank of England notes of high
value. I did this because I wasn't sure but I might leave the vessel
at some intermediate port, and go rampaging heaven knows where. The
world seemed too small for me in those days."

"However, though I feel most regret over the loss of the sword the
Emperor gave me, I certainly feel most inconvenience over the loss of
the money. Candidly, I returned to the Aurungzebe poorer by about
12,000 than when I left her, two hours and a half before."

"You were like Francis I after the battle of Pavia," I observed, in my
pedantic way--"all was lost, save honour." This is the remark to which
I promised, a few pages back, to direct the reader's attention. It
doesn't look so bad on paper; but, uttered then and there, it seemed
to fit in as a studied anti-climax.

Then the accursed remark appeared to grow of its own accord, till it
became pregnant with a jocular fellow--feeling and an off-hand
appreciativeness, completely overbearing and obliterating my own
corroborative reminiscence of two minutes before, and throwing its
baleful shadow backward across Fred's yarn. For one instant I thought
of fashioning the diabolical lapse into a graceful compliment, by
brazening out a serious comparison between the two dispossessed
heroes; but I hesitated; and the suspect who hesitates is judged.

A dead silence fell on the company; whilst a glance of resentment from
the luminous eyes of the lady made me feel much as when, in a dream,
we are conscious of having in our possession property which we vaguely
remember to have stolen, and which we can find no opportunity of
quietly restoring.

I made two or three more slips of the same kind before the evening was
over; but the deepening of my infamy was only like a few cumulative
sentences upon a lifer.

The bushman, whatever else he may be, is always a consecutive thinker,
balancing evidence with judicial circumspection; and he seldom speaks
till he has something to say. Bob turned to Mrs Pritchard.

"Curious thing how some yarns proves their own selves," he remarked.
"I notice that very forcible with your ole man. Now, when he said,
quite simple, about makin' observations to find out what part o' the
sea he was in, I seen the truth o' the yarn stickin' out a yard.
Course, I seen the truth of it all along; for schooners has on'y two
masts, an' by the same token sheets ain't sails, they're ropes. But
that remark about takin' observations sort o' clinched the yarn on the
fur side."

"You're a keen observer, Mr Bruce," said the lady, half-suspiciously;
though she might have known that, to the barbarian's sense of
propriety, my own frivolous comment had made a clear vindication
politely imperative.

"On'y some ways," replied Bob, with a sigh. "Most ways, I'm a
morepoke. But I can't help thinkin' about that pore outlawr layin'
among the ropes, sufferin' from pain an' agony; an' the birds pickin'
his eyes out while he's alive," he continued thoughtfully. "Minds me
o' one time me an' Bat was comin' home to Tarrawarra, after deliverin'
a few fats at the Palmer. Well, one night we sent Paddy O'Rafferty
across the rise to look at the horses--"

"There were three of you in the party, Mr Bruce?"

"No, missus; on'y me an' Bat. Paddy was a blackfeller. Well, he told
us he seen a fire about a mile away, so us not bein' tired, we thought
we'd walk across. We fetched our rifles with us for company, not
expectin' any bother; but when we come near the fire, we begun to
think different. Blackfellers mostly goes in for a piccaninny fire--
jist three sticks, with the ends kep' together-but these fellers had a
rouser; an' we begun to think they was at it agen. Cannivals. Us an'
two other blokes had caught them jist finishin' off a Chow, on'y three
weeks before; an' another Chow, with his legs broke, keepin' fresh for
when he was wanted. Well, this time I'm tellin' you about, we seen a
lot o' them in the light o' the fire; an' us about sixty yards away;
an' by 'n by two fellers comes out o' the dark, leadin' a lubra by
both arms. They fetches her in front of the fire; an' us sneakin' a
bit closer; an' another feller he grips a holt of her hair, an' drags
her head down forrid, about that low; an' another feller he swings his
nilla-nilla with both hands-"

"'Fire!' says Bat, jist above his breath; an' we let fly the both of
us together. Guess how many we got?"

The lady shook her head despairingly. She was in dreadful company this
evening.

"Jist on'y the feller with the waddy," continued Bob, with his
melancholy smile. "One bullet under the shoulder-blade, an' one at the
butt o' the lug. But we was one second too late to save the pore
lubra; her back was broke, an' her legs was useless. An' before we had
time to shove in another cartridge, the blackfellers was gone like
mallee-hens; an' no one was left on'y the lubra an' the corp.

"Next mornin' we passed the blackfellers' camp a bit after sunrise;
an' there was the lubra ketchin' holt o' the grass an' stuff with both
hands, tryin' to snake herself along the ground, to git a drink at the
gilgie. I give her a drink with my pannikin, an' turned her over on
her back-bein' a bit easier that way. Well, after we had went about a
mile, I pulls up-"

"'Bat,' says I; 'I'm thinkin' about that pore misfortunate. The
crows'll have her eyes before she's dead.'"

"'Please yourself,' says Bat. 'I'll wait here till you come back.'"

"So I canters back; an' there was the lubra, layin' where I left her,
pullin' up grass with her fingers, an' moanin' pitiful. I ties up my
horse, an' sneaks on till I wasn't ten yards off of her; then I fires
straight into the top of her head. She never knowed what put her out
o' pain; an' I ain't frightened of her risin' up in judgment agen me."

We were all silent for a minute.

"You served in the Franco-German War, Fred?" said I at length, in
sickly endeavour to conciliate the warrior's bride.

"Yes," replied Ananias, with a retrospective sigh. "I was on the
Emperor's staff."

"How?" asked the pioneer, boldly chancing some unknown sell.

Mrs Pritchard considerately explained. Then came the inevitable
question, "Was you ever wounded?"

"Only once," replied the campaigner. "I got a scratch on the very day
before the battle of Sedan. Let's see--Sedan was on the first of
September, wasn't it? I was out of that little affair, though I fell
into the hands of the Germans along with the rest of the staff. But
you were asking me if I had been wounded."

"It was in this way-"

"Bazaine was cooped up in Metz, with 180,000 men. We concentrated at
Vouziers with 130,000, and advanced by forced marches toward the
Meuse, to effect a junction with Bazaine. If we could have
accomplished this manoeuvre, the war would have been virtually over,
and with honour to France; for, with a reinforcement of another
100,000 men, then on their way from the provinces, we could have cut
off the three German armies in detail, with a total loss on our part
of perhaps not more than 100,000 in killed and wounded."

"How many head o' fellers was there in the other army?" asked Bob,
embarrassed by numbers which would have been big, even in connection
with sheep.

"Close on a million altogether, but only about 600,000 at the front.
Of course, it was a deucedly important thing to keep up our
communication with Bazaine; and it was just as important, on the part
of the Germans, to prevent it. They had a devilish fine body of light
cavalry, called the Black Jagers, told off for this particular
purpose. So the carrying of our dispatches was supposed to be a
service of some danger. The Emperor had sent instructions to Bazaine
on the morning of the twenty-ninth of August; and in the evening we
learned from some Westphalian deserters that the aides had been cut
down, and the dispatches taken. The fate of the campaign seemed to
hang by a thread.

"'Fred,' says the Emperor to me-he always called me Fred-'get as much
sleep as you can tonight; there will be devilish hard work for you in
the morning.'

"The Emperor sat up all night with his military council. In the
morning his private secretary called me, and I presented myself. An
equerry was standing at the door of the tent, holding a splendid
iron-grey charger, saddled and bridled.

"'Fred, my boy,' says the Emperor, with a tremor in his voice-'I'm
selecting you out of 180,000 men to perform a service that I would
entrust to no man but an Australian. Put these dispatches in your
sabretache, and give them to Bazaine before the sun sets. You
understand me? Tomorrow at daylight you will leave Metz with Bazaine's
reply, and place it in my hands before sunset. These are your orders.
There is your horse. No ceremony. Go!'"

"How fur was the trip?" asked Bob.

"Only about a hundred miles, each way; but the country was swarming
with German sharpshooters, and there were three large rivers to swim.
The adventures I met with during those two days-the thirtieth and
thirty-first of August-would fill a deuced good three-volume novel;
but I must get on to the afternoon of the second day-that is, the day
before the battle of Sedan.

"Very well. At five in the afternoon I was about ten miles from my
destination, on the return journey. I could just see in the distance
the white tents of our camp, and the spires of the churches in Sedan.
I had got a fresh horse from a friend in Metz-a Colonel Leverrier,
Thirty-third Infantry. The horse was a Limousin, as good as ever was
saddled; he had gone about ninety miles at the gallop, and now he was
pulling the reins through my fingers, and still spinning along like
the very devil. I thought my journey was as good as over; but, as the
poet says, 'there's many a slip between the cup and the lip'. Suddenly
I saw in front of me a large body of men--"

"In buckram?" suggested some malicious demon, speaking through my
lips.

"No, Tom; in the uniform of our Nineteenth Cuirassiers," replied Fred,
with a shadow of severity. "They were out reconnoitring. The colonel
made a sign to me. I pulled up."

"'Est-ce que vous allez  Sedan?' says he. "'Oui, Colonel'-I beg your
pardon, boys; these old recollections bring back the old language
unknowingly--'Yes, Colonel,' says I, saluting.

"'You can't do it,' says he. 'Von Moltke has cavalry pickets
everywhere. There will be a battle tomorrow. I am going into Sedan.
Fall into my troop.'

"'How long will it take you to reach the camp?' says I, glancing at
the sun.

"'About two hours,' says he.

"'I must be there in an hour,' says I, in my devil-may-care way. 'Au
revoir!' And I was off like the wind.

"When I was within about three miles of Sedan, there suddenly started
out of a thicket in front of me, four Black Jagers. We unfortunate
devils of aides used to dread these fellows more than any other branch
of the German service, on account of their being supplied with
magazine rifles, carrying explosive bullets. They were a strange
corps, and a very expensive one, being all picked men, mounted on
pure-bred Arab horses. Their special duty was to cut off aides and
intercept dispatches; they were sworn to allow no French aide to
escape; to take no prisoners; to give no quarter. And, by Jove, they
fulfilled their engagement to the letter!"

"Like Thugs?" suggested the demon again, in spite of my efforts to
strangle him.

"Very much," assented the aide-de-camp, with good-natured irony. "If
you were flying across country, with the fate of an army in your
sabretache, and saw a few of them racing after you-every man with his
spurs buried in his horse, and the butt of his magazine rifle on his
thigh-you'd have thought they were very much like slugs. However, on
the occasion I'm speaking of, I saw at a glance that only two of the
Jagers had their rifles. Quick as thought, I drew my revolver and
dropped these two fellows, just as they were raising their pieces. The
next instant, the two others were upon me at full gallop. But I was
master of my weapon in those days. I turned a sword-cut and parried a
thrust in half the time I take to tell it; and in thirty seconds more,
I had disarmed one of my antagonists. But during the half minute I was
engaged with this Jager, the other spurred past me, wheeled his horse,
and rising in his stirrups--" here the lady caught her breath and
shuddered, though she was listening to the story for perhaps the
fiftieth time--"treated me to Number Seven across the crown of the
head. It was a cowardly blow."

"My word, you're right!" exclaimed Bob indignantly.

"I reeled in the saddle, but the thought of my dispatches flashed on
my mind, and I gave spurs to my horse, leaving the Jager in possession
of the field. Not a soldierly action on my part, you may think-but
what the deuce could I do?

"I can't say that I have a very distinct recollection of anything that
took place for the next fortnight. It seems like a dream to me, riding
into the camp at full gallop, drenched with blood from shako to spur;
the sentries saluting and falling back as I passed them like a bird on
the wing. I dimly remember reaching the Emperor's tent; then a
giddiness came over me, and I fell into the arms of one of the staff."

"Next, I found myself lying on a camp-bed, and I heard the Emperor's
voice, 'Send for Dupong!'

"Dupong made his appearance-supposed to be the cleverest surgeon in
the world-a man wearing thirteen Continental orders on his breast-"

"'Dupong,' says the Emperor, 'ce jeune homme est  votre charge'-'I
must apologize again, boys; the old tongue comes back with the old
scenes-This young fellow is in your charge,' says the Emperor. 'If he
lives, I'll make your fortune; if he dies, I'll hang you on the
nearest tree.' Dupong sent for his pharmaceutical paraphernalia
without a word, and immediately exhibited chloroform. Of course, I
remember nothing further. In fact, I remember nothing distinctly for a
fortnight."

"Then I heard the Emperor's voice, speaking in a low tone."

"'Well, Dupong-can you save him?'"

"'Save him! Your Majesty,' says Dupong, 'I can't kill him! He has the
Australian constitution-the constitution of a horse!'"

"I spoke up. 'Yes,' says I; 'and at the present moment he could eat a
horse, and chase the rider for his life!'"

"The Emperor laughed."

"Of course, at this time we were prisoners of war. The Emperor had
managed to have me removed to the castle of Wilhelmshohe, when he was
sent there by the German Emperor. To finish my story. Another month
found me as well as ever; out shooting all day-perhaps hunting or
fishing-and having a quiet game of chess with the Emperor in the
evening. I never felt any effect from the wound afterward; though I
don't suppose I could carry a bottle of cognac as steadily as I used
to do before I got it."

"Did it leave much of a mark?" asked the son of the wilderness,
oblivious to my warning look.

"Not much," replied the soldier indifferently. "Dupong promised to
close the wound without leaving any scar whatever, but I daresay you
can see a trace of it still." And turning the back of his head for
Bob's inspection, he exposed a formidable scar, extending fore-and-aft
across the swirl of the hair. Which set me musing on bygone days.

And what a little thing sometimes suffices to recall a scene from that
Past which, independently of all we can do or say now, is folded up
and pigeon-holed, to reappear while we are in process of being
drowned! You visit your parental home, for instance, and your mother
brings from her museum of antiquities the faded photographic album of
other days, and places it in your hands. Your attention is arrested by
your own likeness. You don't, at the first moment, speculate as to
whether you were really such a sheepish-looking object as you are
there represented-that is the afterthought. At the first moment you
involuntarily recall the almost painful pleasure which overwhelmed
your worthless little soul when your mother took you to the portable
gallery of the travelling photographer, who was staying in the
township for three weeks only. Again the artist jams the back of your
head into his reversed sugar-tongs; again he charges you to remain
quite still, also to keep your eyes open, and look pleasant; again he
pulls the cap-box off the spout of his machine, and you feel yourself
wriggling, and swaying, and winking, and grinning, for half a
lifetime; again you experience the heavenly relief-albeit dashed with
incredulity-when the artist, replacing his cap-box, says, "That will
do, thank you; I think we shall have a very good result." A glance at
the photograph brings the whole scene back.

In like manner, the sight of that scar on Fred's head recalled an
incident which had occurred when I was twelve or thirteen years of
age; and this affords opportunity of indulging in a reminiscence-an
opportunity which, when seasonable and seemly, I am seldom known to
neglect. Go to, then; here be truths, I hope.

Few mothers, I think, are likely to forget the annoyance to which they
were subjected when the epidemic of bullet-making broke out among
their boys. But there is a limit to the patience even of mothers. One
evening, Steve Thompson and I had reached this limit, and were sitting
in the middle of the road between our homes, after eviction from both
kitchens.

"People ought to build a extry chimley on their houses," remarked
Steve moodily. "Well, I'm about sick of it, Tom; an' I s'pose you're
the same. If we had a elephant of our own; or else a calf with seven
heads an' ten horns; or else a bairded woman for a wife; or else any
other way of makin' a respectable livin', it would pay us to clear
out, an' scrat for our own gosh selves."

"I don't give a beggar," said I viciously. "When I have kids of my
own, I'll git them chris'ned with the ugliest names I can find, an'
wallop them within one inch of their beggarin' life."

"But what are we goin' to do now?" queried Steve, throwing a clod at
his sister, who was approaching us to tender her sympathy and
services, eating a raw carrot as she came.

"Ole Jones's smiddy's the idea," said I, rising to my feet. "Go an'
fetch us a bit o' candle, Kit, an' I'll say you're a good girl."

"If you give me ten kicks at your football tomorrow," she replied,
with the provident instinct of her sex.

I agreed to these terms, and the girl skipped away. Then we gathered
up our impedimenta-a broken saucepan, which we used as a crucible; a
bullet-mould of the good old spherical pattern; a few bullets, about
the size of plums, and some dumps cast in the outer shell of an
ancient coat button, which bore in high relief the insignia of a fox's
head. Also a quantity of crude material, consisting of a pound or two
of tea-chest lead; an old Britannia-metal teapot; a bar of solder,
which Steve had found in his father's tool-box; a pewter ladle,
recently very useful to my mother, but now prudently battered beyond
recognition; lastly, a sardine box full of nuggets recovered from the
ashes of a zinc hut, burnt down by accident. The zinc had been
discovered and collected by Freddy, but I had happened to meet him
before he got home with it.

"Let me go with you, Tom, like a good feller," pleaded the girl, as
she returned with half a candle in her hand. "I ain't as useless as
Steve makes out."

"Well, I'll see about it, Kit," said I, gently, as I took the candle.
"No, you shan't," I continued, putting the article in my pocket.
"You're as fat as a fool," I continued, with supererogatory
politeness.

"Oh, indeed!" she retorted superbly. "An' pray who are you? The
Tom-the-rom-the-rick-stick-stom! The rose is red-no--Flash cat,
eat a rat; fill your--"

"Oh, shut up!" said I. "I hate girls." And so I did, as a boy.
Afterward, to be sure, when the boy proper became a boy in the Irish
sense of the word, I softened down considerably.

So we took our way toward the smiddy, half a mile down the road-the
girl's voice ringing after us through the evening air--"Now mind you
give me them ten kicks at that football in the mornin', or else you
know where story-tellers goes to when they croak."

On reaching our grimy haven we inserted a bit of hoop-iron between two
boards of the back door, and so lifted the latch. We took possession
with a clear conscience, knowing that old Jones was safely established
for the evening in the pub where he boarded. We had matches with us;
and the hearth of the forge was soon generously heaped with glowing
charcoal, which illuminated the little shop, shedding a cadaverous
light on our faces, and glinting brightly on the knife-bar of a
reaping machine which Jones had left sticking in a slanting position,
edge downward, in the vice. In a few minutes the first charge of metal
was sinking down in the corner of our saucepan.

"What's you fellers doin' in there?" We recognized Freddy's voice,
speaking through a crack in the wall.

"You can come in if you like," said Steve. "The back door ain't fast."

"I say, Steve; we're in luck!" I exclaimed. "Here's ole Jones's
crucivle!" I had seen it on a shelf when I looked round as Freddy
spoke. We annexed it at once--a fire-proof crucible which the absent
owner was accustomed to use for melting brass.

"I s'pose these is the pinchers he hold it with," I continued, taking
up a pair of forge tongs with mandibles bent at a right angle to the
handles. I gripped the edge of the crucible with the tongs; and the
fragile graphite yielded to the unfair pressure.

"Hold on!" cried Steve. "Them's the wrong sort o' pinchers; them's for
nave-bands. See what you done! The crucivle's cooked now. It cost two
notes in Melb'n."

"Beggar the odds," I replied, with the nonchalant philosophy which,
even in those days, was a conspicuous feature of my character. "It
isn't like as if we couldn't afford it. But here's the ladle he uses
for meltin' lead. Some sense in a thing like this." And we
appropriated the ladle.

"Now, Freddy," I continued, fixing the candle on the anvil block;
"you'll have to sling yourself about. Hold them bullet-moulds while I
pour in the stuff; an' mind you don't open them before the bullets is
properly seasoned."

"I'll jist shift this lead into the ladle; it's the handiest," said
Steve. "I'll put all our zinc into the saucepan, an' leave it stewin'
on the fire. Zinc's middlin' hard to melt."

Then the work began to make some progress. Steve kept a strong blast
on the fire, whilst I devoted myself to the administration of the
ladle, and the bossing of Freddy.

"Ain't the fire gittin' a curious colour," remarked Steve, at length.
"Talk about the colours o' the rainbow---Hello! the bottom's out o'
the dash saucepan!"

And, of course, the zinc was in the fire. Now it is within the
knowledge of all workers in metal-and laymen may safely take it on the
word of one who values truth more than fine gold-that the smallest bit
of zinc in a blacksmith's fire necessitates the complete cleaning out
of the hearth; not to speak of the probable spoiling of subsequent
work, owing to the fused surface of the iron becoming impregnated with
the hydrochloric nitrocarburet of oxysulphuretted hypophosphite (or
words to that effect), liberated by the action of the fire on the
ultimate molecules of the zinc. There were more things in Science than
we had any notion of, and this was one of them.

"Bad job about the zinc," remarked Steve, as we resumed our work. "I
was jist thinkin' we might mix different sorts o' stuff, an' see what
it would turn into. That's the way gunpowder was invented-ain't it,
Tom?"

"Who invented gunpowder?" asked Freddy meekly.

"You ain't the bloke that invented gunpowder, anyhow," retorted Steve,
unconsciously repeating the popular German proverb. "But who was it,
Tom?"

Those who are personally acquainted with me will readily believe that
the most difficult self-disciplinary lesson of my life has been
obtaining a practical mastery of that fine Rabbinical precept, 'Learn
to say, I do not know.' So I replied, "Well, various people gits the
credit of it; but after givin' the subject some study, I come to the
conclusion that Lord Bacon was the man. He invented lots o' things."

"Bakin' powder, besides gunpowder," suggested Steve.

"Yes. An' the latest news is that he wrote Shakespeare."

"Do you read Shakespeare, Tom?" asked Steve, in the tone which
Xenocrates might have used in addressing Plato. (However affected and
incongruous this comparison may appear, I shall let it stand, just as
a typical illustration of my unhappy mannerism, frankly confessed, you
will remember, on a former page.)

"On'y the blaggard places," said I, in the tone which Plato might have
used in reply. "I know where to find them."

"Lots o' blaggardism in the Bible," contributed Freddy.

"That's a dash lie," replied Steve piously.

"I don't believe the Bible," added Freddy.

"Then you'll go to the burnin' fire," retorted Steve. "Ain't he safe
for it, Tom?"

I cleared my throat. "It's this way," said I judicially. "There's
various things keeps a person from goin' to the burnin' fire, but the
main holt is believin' the Bible; an' you see he skites about not
believin' it. Yes, he'll go to the burnin' fire, right enough. Quick
with them bulletmoulds, you lazy varmin." "Lazy" is not exactly the
word I used, but it is phonetically near enough for the purposes of
narration.

"So Lord Bacon invented gunpowder?" remarked Freddy uneasily.

"Yes," I replied, with affability, for I never resented a tribute to
my knowledge, even from Freddy.

"Young fella, at the time. Ole blokes never invents anything. Why,
gunpowder it's four shillin's a pound, an' blastin' powder it's only a
shillin'; an' none o' your ole beggars ever thought o' makin'
gunpowder out o' blastin' powder till us two studied it out. We must
have another try at that invention, Steve. Shouldn't wonder if we made
our pile out of it yet."

"Did you have a try at it?" asked Freddy respectfully.

"Course we did," replied Steve. "That's how we got our eyebrows burnt
off-not through helpin' ole Jones to put on some tires. Mind, if you
say a word about it, we'll wring your dash neck. Tom foun' out where
his dad kep' the keg o' blastin' powder; an' Tom he stole a pannikin
full; an' we got that big camp-oven lid at our rubbage-heap, an' we
carted her down the paddick in the moonlight; an' we emp'ied the
powder in her; an' we had two quartz boulders, like goose eggs, to
pound it with; an' me and Tom we was sittin' one at each side, beltin'
away like fury, an' talkin' about one thing or another; an'-fluff!-off
she goes! I thought it was the end o' the world comin'; an' I'm dashed
if I was ready."

"I'm middlin' hard to puzzle," I rejoined; "but beggar me if I can
make out what started her off so suddent."

"Git a wallopin'?" queried Freddy unctuously.

"No gosh fear!" replied Steve. "Kit foun' a stink o' powder on me when
I went home, so I kep' by my own self till I sweetened agen. I'm goin'
to welt her if she tells; an' if you split on us!--gr-r-r-r-r!" And
Steve ground his teeth.

"Our hands is a bit sore yet, with the scorchin'," I remarked; "but
we'll finish the invention when I git another chance at the blastin'
powder. That's part of our idea of makin' these bullets, Freddy. We're
goin' to git up at daylight every mornin', an' practise with our guns
till we kin bust a bottle every shot at a quarter of a mile. People'll
wonder what the mischief we're up to; but we'll keep that to
ourselves-won't we, Steve?"

"My word!"

"I made a middlin' good shot when I was out at the ole man's contract,
last week," observed Freddy, encouraged by our confidences. "One day,
all hands was out at work, an' I was stoppin' at the camp, boilin'
some meat; an' three emus was goin' past; an' I takes Jack Blake's gun
out o' the tent, an' lets fly. Well, the bullet it goes through one
emu, an' hits another, an' goes through him, an' lodges in another;
an' there was the four emus all layin' dead in a straight line.
Queerest sight I ever seen."

"Where's the skins?" asked Steve, eyeing the marksman sternly.

"I give 'em to the shanty-keeper's wife-an' more fool me, for bein' so
soft."

"Let him rip, Steve," said I complacently. "He'll git a roastin' yet
that'll waken him up. Gimme this for a kettle-holder," I continued,
taking Freddy's cap off his head.

"These bullet-moulds is flamin' hot, too," said Freddy; "we'll better
wait till they cool."

"Plop them in the tub, an' let them soak a minit, you morepoke," I
replied.

"I think we're goin' to invent a new metal, after all," remarked
Steve, peering into the ladle. "It looks dash like silver; an' it
ought to be somethink good, for there's samples of everythink in it;
an' it's the last we got left."

I took the ladle. Steve left his bellows to watch the pouring of the
alchemic triumph.

"Grope up them bullet-moulds out o' the tub, you jackass," said I to
Freddy. "Mind, you got no share in this invention. Scrape the scum off
the ladle, Steve. It is silver, by gosh! See how bright it is! If we
had some yalla stuff to mix with it, we could make gold! A person's
always findin' out something new. Now keep them bullet-moulds steady,
you--"

Spit-bang! A person's always finding out something new.

This time, it was a spray of molten metal in our faces. We darted back
from the treacherous bullet-mould like crawfish from a bait when their
prominent eyes detect the dirty little hand of the operator descending
slowly through the water, with intent to scoop them ashore. Steve
alighted on a nave-band belonging to one of those mighty bullock drays
of the Golden Age; the opposite edge flew up, chopping him on the
knee, and prompting him to say something awful for a boy of his age.
The blacksmith's tub, containing two feet of water, was immediately
behind the divine Plato; and that philosopher landed--launched, rather--
therein in a sitting position. Freddy fared worst. The knife-bar,
before referred to, was close behind him; and, in springing back, he
brought the crown of his bare head against the edge of one of the
knife sections, with a force that shook the vice-bench.

I came forth from my tub, like Diogenes, when Alexander-(Avaunt,
tempter! not this time!)

I extricated myself from the tub, raised Freddy from the floor, and,
finding him still alive, clapped his cap on his bleeding head, and
shoved him out of the smiddy, with an inward prayer that he might
survive till he got home. The poor fellow tearfully and distractedly
averred that he could feel his own brains bubbling out; so I was
vaguely alarmed for myself. Then Steve and I collected our assets, and
departed in silence. A lesson in metallurgy; and, like Sir John, we
paid nothing for it neither, but were paid for our learning.

About a week later, Steve, Freddy and I ventured to favour Jones with
one of our customary visits.

Without noticing Steve or me, the blacksmith scowled from beneath his
bushy eyebrows at Freddy, who, by virtue of the white bandage on his
head, assumed a placidly heroic look. Incidentally, a day or two
previously, I had heard his mother tell mine that the poor boy had
fallen down a quarry in the dark, whilst looking for the geese. "Wass
the matter wi' yer 'ead, boy?" growled Jones, whose voice was a
trustworthy index to his temper, ranging from the croak of a frog to
the snarl of a terrier, as his chronic crossness varied from the
comparative to the superlative. Jones out-blacksmithed the ordinary
blacksmith in snappishness-which is saying a lot.

"Met with a accident," replied Freddy serenely. "I was at a man's
place the other day; an' there was a brown colt that slung everybody
that got onto him; an' they dared me to tackle him, or else I'd 'a'
had more sense; an' when the colt foun' he couldn't shift me, he
raired up an' come back on top o' me; an' my head come on a broken
bottle; an' serve me dash well right for bein' sich a fool. He was a
brown colt, with white hine--"

"Ain't you frightened o' bein' struck dead, boy? Come 'ere," and
Jones, taking Freddy by the arm, led him to the bench. "See that there
dollop of ezzinc? Well, I got that layin' in the bott'n o' my fire;
that's your ezzinc; same ezzinc I seen you pickin' out o' the ashes o'
the ole quarry hut, las' Sat'day week-an' you dassent deny it, boy.
See that there tussick o' hair, layin' on the winder-sill? Well, I got
that stickin' on a knife-bar, in my vice; that's your hair. See that
crucivle, all broke to shivereens? Well, I got that layin' on my
hearth; that's my crucivle. Now lookee 'ere see-if I ketch you in this
'ere shop agin, I'll-I'll-I'll-jis' you look out--that's all. Ain't
you gone yit? Gosterewth! I'll--"

Steve and I stood by, with surprise and interest depicted on our
faces, while this chain of circumstantial evidence was unfolded link
by link; and, as Freddy nimbly departed, Jones turned to encounter our
look of honest sympathy.

"You chaps kin take that ezzinc for makin' dumps," he croaked.
"Blinded thing's costed me two notes a'ready, not to speak o' the
fire. Now, mizzle!"

We accepted the zinc, though it was no use to us. Like St Paul, we had
put away childish things. We had become convinced that the shortest
cut to opulence and renown lay in the direction of mining enterprise.
Already we had put down a shaft about three feet, having, for
blackfellow reasons, selected a soft alluvial flat as the scene of our
labours. Already we had decided that the new goldfield should be
proclaimed as the Ethiopian Serenaders' Gully; already we had arranged
that the Government reward should be divided equally between us; and
lastly-a suggestion which emanated from myself-that alphabetical order
should be respected in the public announcement of the discoverers'
names.

"Yes; the mark's there, right enough," said Bob. "My word, boss, you
got a rakin' good head," he continued, artfully yet transparently
opening for himself an opportunity to contribute of his own fullness
toward the Adelaide shout of information. "The moral sentiments is
normal; an' the intellectual faculties balances them to a nicety. The
propensities is fairly counterbalanced; an' the development of the
perceptive faculties an' the reflective faculties is jist in
proportion. I don't see as you got a disturbin' bias any particular
road, without it's for Ideality, an' its correlative organ, Sublimity.
These gives a man a tendency to etherealize, but, when dominated by
the strictly moral group, an' controlled by those higher propensities
which confer vigour an' force of character, they constitute the Poetry
of Life."

"You have studied phrenology, Mr Bruce?" said the lady, with ready
sympathy.

"Yes, missus; me an' pore Bat we studied it for over a year. We on'y
had a phrenology book an' a ready reckoner; an' we studied that
phrenology book for all she was worth. You can't git over phrenology--
not fur. 'Know thyself,' says the Hellenic sage; an' sixty generations
have endorsed the imperishable wisdom of the precept."

"I'm a firm believer in phrenology, myself," remarked Fred, with the
complaisance of real gratitude.

"It ain't easy to understate the advantages of it," responded the man
of one book. "Now, there was pore Bat--" he hesitated, sighed deeply,
and proceeded in a low tone--"You'll notice everybody's got one main
fault; an' the pore feller, of course, he had one too. Well, I
couldn't account for it, no road, till we studied that phrenology
book. I don't deny it was a middlin' bad sort o' fault, common as it
is."

Never mind what it was. Ah! I wish you'd 'a' knowed Bat! Prettiest
rider ever I seen on a horse; an' always jolly, no matter if he was
froze, or if he was roasted alive; an' he'd give you the last drop o'
water out of his bag, no matter if his own tongue was stickin' to his
mouth. 'Bat,' says I to him, many's the time, 'turn over a new leaf,
while you got the slant.' 'You go to-so-an'-so,' says he, an' he'd
laugh.

"Pore ole Bat! Ah! life ain't what it's cracked up to be!" He paused
awhile, gazing into the fire-place, then recalled himself by an
effort--

"Well, when I begun to study phrenology, I foun' Bat wasn't
responsivle, in a manner o' speakin', for this fault; an' people that
ain't got it needn't be anyways nasty, for ten to one they got some
other fault to make up for it-an' I don't deny I'm in that perdicament
myself. Anyhow, I can't believe but what the pore feller's gone to
heaven, no matter if the back of his head was as thick as a corner
post. I ain't worth a beggar that way myself," he continued, with the
horrible frankness of a child; "you can easy tell by the back o' my
head that I don't--"

"I suppose you generalize the science, Bob," I interposed. "That is to
say, you have learned to balance organ against organ, and group
against group, taking the prevailing drift of the development?"

"That's jist my favourite holt," replied Lord Chesterfield. "The book
warned a person to be on their guard agen overlookin' the
counterbalancin' influence of organs possessed of what might be termed
the affinity of opposition. Now take a instance. We'll say a party's
got Acquisitiveness large, an' Conscientiousness an' Benevolence large
too. You mustn't run away with the idear that he's a miser, on account
of his Acquisitiveness, for there's two good strong ole-man bumps
buckin' agen it. But s'posen', on the other hand, a party's got
Acquisitiveness large, an' nothing worth while to rassle with it-on'y,
we'll say, Time, an' Tune, an' Size, an' Colour, an' ever sich a swag
o' piccaninny faculties-why, that party he can't help bein' a miser.
If you're any good, you'll pity thet bloke; an' by the same token you
may swear he's got reason to pity you. Yes; phrenology's the grandest
science goin'."

"Now, what is your estimate of me, Mr Bruce?" asked Fred. "I'm not
afraid of your judgment."

"Nor you needn't be," replied Bob honestly. "To my judgment, you're
fit for anything from pitch-an'-toss to man-slaughter, as the sayin'
is. I on'y wish I was like you. My word, I'd write a book! Tell you
what I'd do if I was you, with your practice at sojerin'. I'd stick up
the Gover'ment for a good permanent billet over the Volunteers. You'd
shine!"

"I'm not so sure of that," replied Fred sadly. "People persist in
over-rating my abilities. For instance, no sooner had I returned to
Victoria from England than I was offered a colonel's commission."

"That's a lot higher nor a aidy-conk-ain't it?" inquired Bob.

"I should think so, Mr Bruce. But, of course, I had to decline."

"Why?" asked Bob, in natural surprise.

"I had sworn allegiance to the French flag; and no man of my race ever
sold his sword to the highest bidder," replied the soldier with
melancholy pride. "This dooms me to obscurity. It is said that every
man makes one false step in life."

"Like goin' insolvent," suggested Bob, kindly but hazardously.

"Like going insolvent, as you say, Mr Bruce. But, deuce take it, my
insolvency is no mere money matter."

"It prevents me taking a command in the forces of my native country."
Mr Bruce, though lost in the maze of motives, scruples, and unhappy
conjunctures, assumed an air of sage appreciation; whilst my besetting
sin overtook me once more--

"Well, Fred," said I lightly, "though I am myself indifferent honest,
I think I'd let that perfunctory oath of allegiance slide. And if my
soul wanted anything in the way of flattering unction, I would gently
apply a passage you'll find in the Hippolytus of Euripides:--'Although
my tongue hath sworn, my soul is from the compact free'."

"Different men have different principles," observed the lady tartly;
then, demonstratively turning her back to me, she continued, with a
marked change of tone.

"Oh, Mr Bruce! I want you to give me all the information you can,
about the Aborigines. You are evidently a high authority on their
manners and customs."

"Well, I'm frightened you'll be disappointed, so to speak," replied
Bob uneasily, whilst his helpless glance at me betrayed an
apprehension that the person who could administer the reproof valiant
to a man of my tonnage might easily find some occasion against
himself. "I never studied blackfellers. In fact, missus, to tell you
the truth, they don't bother much about manners an' customs, so there
ain't much to study. Anyhow, they're dyin' out by degrees, so the time
ain't fur off when it won't matter sixpence what their manners and
customs was like."

"Ah! Mr Bruce, for that very reason, every detail of their life or
history is of special value."

"Well," continued Bob desperately, "they smoke when they can git
tobacker; an' they booze when they can git grog; an' they got no shame
in regard o' cadgin', an' very little shame any other way. Some places
they live mostly on possums; an' some places mostly on fish; an' some
places mostly on other things; an' they can eat wild melons without
goin' cronk in their inside; an' their main delicacy's wood-grubs.
You've seen woodgrubs?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, they're best roasted on a hot stone; an' they taste like nuts;
an' you can eat them when you're too full to eat anything else.
They're jist for all the world like your second toe, but mostly a good
deal bigger. They got a shinin' head, like your toe-nail; an' they--"

"The blacks are strong in Locality," I suggested carelessly; for it
was time to draw a red herring across Bob's epicurean line of thought;
and I chose a trustworthy one.

"Wonderful!" replied the scientist eagerly. "I notice, the Reflective
faculties is mostly deficient, an' so is--"

"I am particularly curious respecting the boomerang," interposed the
lady, with a deprecatory gesture.

"Our information leads us to believe that this weapon will strike the
object aimed at, and return to the feet of the thrower. Now, is this
peculiar property in the boomerang owing to its shape, or to the kind
of wood it is made from, or to dexterity on the part of the thrower?"

Bob glanced at me with the beseeching look of a man condemned to
unravel a tangled line, with both ends cut off, and nowhere to begin
upon; then, fairly lifting his self-possession with rein and spur, he
remarked diplomatically, "Yes; it would be straight into the
blackfeller's hand, if his boomerang would come back after hittin'
anything."

"And doesn't it?"

"Oh, no. If it hits anything worth while, it loses its grip on the
air, an' comes wobblin' down."

"Just fancy! Now I want you to explain the weapon thoroughly-all its
properties, and all its uses. I know nothing of it except that it is a
most peculiar engine."

"Oh, no; it ain't a engine, no road," replied Bob, with returning
composure. "Blackfellers couldn't go that lot."

"But think what a strange interest is attached to the weapon,"
continued the lady, with forced gravity.

"It seems to separate the indigenous Australian from every other race--
that is to say, the possession of the boomerang and the lack of the
bow. There is presumptive evidence of great antiquity here-don't you
think? These people must have become isolated before the invention of
the bow; and what a singular substitute they contrived; so simple in
appearance, yet-according to all accounts-so complex in operation. You
must know all about boomerangs, Mr Bruce?"

"Mostly all, I s'pose. But, as I was sayin' jist now, it ain't worth
while to know anything about a class of people that's had their day.
Curious thing, missus; fust news o' the whitefellers gives the
blackfellers a jar, all over the country; an' they don't bother much
about anything after. Fact, most tribes is dyin' out o' their own
accord, even where they ain't interfered with. Small loss."

"This is very interesting! Oh, Fred! I trust that you availed yourself
of Mr Bruce's information this afternoon?"

"I assure you, Lilian, I have seldom enjoyed any man's society as
much," replied Fred; and for once that day, he spoke the truth.

"But must you really leave us tomorrow morning?" asked the lady.

Bob nodded; but the quick feminine eye detected a wavering purpose.

"Surely one day wouldn't make much difference to you," she pleaded;
"and it would make a very great difference to me. Do let us have your
society tomorrow."

"Well-I been layin' out to go-but--"

"Very well. You're absolved from that resolution. You'll stay-won't
you? Of course you will! You promise to stay another day? No words can
express my thanks."

"Boot's on the other foot, missus," replied Bob, lapsing into
hazardous ease of mind. "I'll do what little lays in my power to give
you a sort o' rough insight into blackfellers' ways, if it's any use
to you."

"Now I'll look forward to a day of exceptional interest," said the
lady complacently. "Be sure I'll make the best use of this rare
opportunity. You know, Mr Bruce, I write occasionally for the
Australasian, and sometimes for the Bulletin."

"Go to (sheol)!" exclaimed Mr Bruce rapturously; then like fire
through dry silver-grass the burning flush of shame and mortification
swept across his brown face and white forehead, and there remained,
spreading to neck and ears, while the only expression left on his
ingenuous countenance was that of unspeakable longing for a private
earthquake of a yard in diameter, immediately underneath his chair.

The authoress, politely oblivious, used every effort toward his moral
restoration, but to no purpose. It was the proclamation of Peace,
peace, when there was no peace. Abysmal ignominy was Bob's portion for
the rest of the evening. He was writ with me in sour misfortune's
book; though (if you understand me), his calamity was subjective,
whilst mine was objective.

But Bob's extremity was Fred's opportunity. The latter now proceeded to
narrate, in his really lucid and interesting style, and with marvellous
coherency, the honours lavished upon him at the ivy-wreathed castle
which had been the home of the Falklands from time immemorial. Of
course, I listened with ostentatious interest; but the more cunningly I
grovelled the more emphatically the lady ignored me, whilst enclosing
Bob in an atmosphere of something like adulation.

Howbeit, according to my custom, I sought surcease of sorrow in
philosophy and so turned disgrace to profit; finding a honeycomb of
truth in the skeleton of my dead honour; namely, that it is the nature
of woman to assess the worth of any outsider solely by the character
of such appreciation as he concedes to her own fetish; so that the
most cordial appraisement may be offensive rather than conciliatory.
Now, Bob and I admired Fred with about equal warmth; but we saw his
greatness from different aspects; whereupon the feminine mind mirrored
back each estimate with characteristic perversity, investing the
barbarian with moral beauty, and making the philosopher's
righteousness seem as filthy rags. But are we not all prone to value
people for conformity with our own notions, rather than for isolated
righteousness in the sight of heaven?

The unconscious subject of my speculations had been glancing uneasily
at the clock from time to time; at last she rose, shook hands with
Bob, bowed coldly to me, and retired. As soon as she was out of
hearing, I brought a bottle of Muscat from my room, and three glasses
from the kitchen. Then Bob and I lit our pipes, while Fred produced
his cigar-case-and isn't it queer how, under these circumstances, the
best of us feel morally called upon to relate gentlemen's stories?

Of course, we gave precedence to Fred, who forthwith entered upon the
narration of an English affaire de coeur; the heroine being a giddy
countess; the rival, an officer of artillery; and himself, the hero.
But he was tired and sleepy; so that, though the massy grouping, and
relation of parts to the whole, bore token of a master's hand, the
perspective was Japanese, the technique damnable, and the subordinate
details feeble in conception and vicious in execution-the duel, for
instance, being merely sketched in. And after giving the last slovenly
touches to this pot-boiler, he yawned drowsily, congratulated himself
on the prospect of Bob's company for the morrow, bade us good night,
and retired.

The ensuing silence was broken by a shuddering sigh from Bob, while he
absently contemplated the armchair Mrs Pritchard had occupied. Then he
slowly unfolded himself upward, like a fire-escape.

"Pleasant social evening we've had," I remarked cheerfully.

"I'm off in the mornin'; so I bid you good-bye tonight," replied Bob,
in a sepulchral voice. "Skreek o' day's my idear."

"You mustn't think of such a thing," said I gravely. "Consider the
slight you would be putting on these people, after your voluntary
promise. Why, the grossest incivility on their part wouldn't justify
the course you propose; and you've met with nothing but courtesy and
consideration."

"It ain't the fust dirty thing I done in my life, an' I'm middlin'
sure it won't be the last," rejoined the brolga doggedly.

"Every one of us makes a conversational slip once in a while, and we
think nothing of it," I argued. "You could see that Mrs Pritchard
overlooked your little mistake--"

"Fool's parding," interposed Bob bitterly. "That's jist where it comes
in. Can't I read her like a book? I'll be floggin' over this evenin'
for the next couple o' years. I been there before."

"But, Bob, don't you see that she treats you with respect, and me with
contempt? Why should you fly from her sincere friendship, while I have
no intention of flying from her scorn?"

"Now you jist said it. You're worth scorn, an' I ain't. If I stayed
tomorrer, she'd be givin' me a bit o' bread an' jam every two hours. I
tell you, I'm frightened-frightened!-It's jist her politeness that
knocks me. It's a fearful thing to be forgiven. A man should be
independent of it-like you are."

"Well, Bob, she'll feel very much hurt if you disappoint her."

"I'd sooner walk a hundred mile than be any nastier nor I can help,"
replied the pioneer sullenly. "But you see for yourself I can't help
bein' nasty if I stop here; an' my nastiness all disappears when I'm
joggin' along, with my horses for company. It makes me shiver to think
about turnin' dog on sich nice people as these is; but it's a choice
between the divil an' the deep sea, an' I'll chance the deep sea. I'd
start this very minit, on'y that old morepoke" (Mrs Ferguson's
husband) "has got my things locked up in the store-room."

"He showed me the door I was to knock at in the mornin', if I wanted
to start early; but it ain't decent to rouse him out before the cocks
begins to crow. So I got to pass the time some road; an' that's no
easy matter, for I'm so sleepy I daren't lay down. Would you mind
stoppin' up for a couple or three hours?"

"You're acting foolishly, Bob. You hold a high place in the estimation
of these people; and you can make it higher if you only go on as you
have begun. Certainly I'll stay up with you awhile, if you will only
listen to reason."

"Enough's a feast, but more's a glutton," muttered the barbarian, as
he stalked out of the parlour.

I refilled my pipe, slipped off my boots, and put my heels on the
mantelpiece, in hope that Bob might be driven back by the dread of
going to sleep. To my mind, there was an element of pathos in the
situation.

One may be a stranger in a strange land without coming from a foreign
country. The society man--"gentleman", slum-denizen, or intermediate--
turned adrift in the silences of the Never-Never, will be forlorn as
any alien derelict. The born-and-bred nomad of Out-back, drawn into
the maelstrom of civilized society, is desolate also, and worse, for
he feels himself in the way. A rational egotism usually sustains the
exiled unit of society; whilst a sensitive self-consciousness
inevitably crushes the transplanted bushman. The former feels like a
martyr; the latter, like a criminal. Perhaps the most pronounced
effect of life-long communion with Nature is the strengthening of
personality; therefore, the motto of a medieval Italian family, "I
break, but not bend," might be applied to the bushman entangled in the
amenities of civilization; whilst the legend of a rival house, "I
bend, but not break", would fit the society exile as our word "damper"
fits the provender it designates. Of course, there are bushmen who are
townsmen by nature, and vice versa. But Bob was a bushman by nature,
as well as by unbroken experience; by choice, as well as by
compulsion. His individuality was clear-cut as a cameo.

Faithful and single-hearted, he was sternly honest in his criminality,
and pious in his acknowledged wrong-doing. For instance, his sympathy
with bushrangers and horse-stealers was as magnanimous as your own
tenderness for usurers, profit-mongers, noblemen etc. In a word, he
walked conscientiously in a light that was extremely dim. Every
unselfish man is loyal to something extraneous; at that date Bob was
loyal to Capitalism and M'Gregor; a few years later, he was still more
loyal to the Queensland strike leaders and Socialism-in-our-own-time--
just as his historical namesake was loyal to England at Falkirk, and
to Scotland at Bannockburn. Yet Bob was the same incorrigible brolga
as before. Any scribe learned in the Scriptures will tell you that a
zealous persecutor will be a zealous apostle, if the object of his
fidelity be changed, by reason of meeting the Lord in the way. But
this discretional and deliberate fixity of purpose is a rare quality,
and perhaps the only one held in common by Paul and Bob.

Presently I fell musing upon the problem presented to me in Fred's
successful pre-emption of a piece of womanhood, trusty, pliant, and
responsive to his touch as the Jager-quelling blade of other days.
There must, I argued, be something in Fred, after all-some magnetic
property, enabling him to draw from the heterogeneous mixture of
society such a finely-tempered bit of steel. And, beyond controversy,
there was only one thing in Fred. Therein, as a matter of mere
necessity, his magnetism must lie (lie is good).

Moreover, this magnet-metaphor may serve to throw light upon many of
the conjugal successes and disasters that have puzzled philosophers.

Say that the moral constitution of woman causes her to present
different aspects, or fronts, to different people. Say that to the
bold and brilliant liar she is what is scientifically termed
paramagnetic-that is, strongly susceptible to magnetic attraction,
like iron, platinum, nickel, and some other substances. Say that to
the man of austere veracity, such as myself, she is diamagnetic-that
is, strongly repellent, like gold, silver, ivory, and so forth.
Briefly, she is a thing of credulity, and a hero-worshipper for ever;
and there is not enough heroism in the earth-born he-feller to keep
her going, unless his store of that ingredient is continually
supplemented from the laboratory of the imagination.

Desdemona loved Othello for his own uncorroborated account of the
dangers he had passed, and for nothing else. This, Othello assured the
Senate, was the only witchcraft he had used. She herself bade him, if
he had a friend that loved her, he should but teach him how to tell
his story, and that would woo her. If you can get the correct hang of
all those pronouns, you will perceive that Desdemona loved the
narrator, not the hero. As the play advances, the narrator's purse
becomes empty; all his golden words are spent; and nothing remains but
the mere hero. Then the dramatist, by delicate touches, discloses the
woman's wandering fancy, and mercifully takes her from the evil to
come. Othello is a man of action, rather than of imagination; he
could, and did, pack the adventures of a year into an evening's
narration. Hence his failure. Not so Fred Pritchard; he is a man of
imagination, rather than of action; in his case the adventures of an
evening could scarcely be packed into a year's narration.
Consequently, he is an evergreen hero to his vally-de-sham. Age cannot
limit him, nor use exhaust his infinite mendacity.

Can I wonder, then, that the paramagnetic aspect has been so squarely
presented to this Menura superba?-or that the diamagnetic front has
always encountered myself; seeing that he is my direct antithesis, and
that the pollusion holds in the exchange.

Such was my solution of the problem, here briefly summarized, and made
to embrace a trustworthy tip for whomsoever it may concern.

As Bob did not return to the parlour, I resumed my boots, went out to
give Pup the head-and-pluck reserved for his second supper, and then
to bed.

In the morning, bearing in mind that there was no hurry, I remained
storing Energy out of the blankets till about half past eight. By this
time Fred and his family had gone out for a morning walk. While I was
having breakfast, Mrs Ferguson came into the dining-room and asked me,
in a low, confidential tone, "Has your friend been drinking?"

"Only from the fountain of Romance. By the way, Mrs Ferguson, if you
want to stand well with his wife, you must believe every word he
says."

"Oh, I don't mean Mr Pritchard. I mean the tall gentleman."

"Did he forget his account? I can assure you it was pure inadvertance.
He's a bit troubled in his mind. I'll be very happy to take up his
liability."

"Very far from that!" replied the landlady, laughing. "He's sound
asleep still. When Annie went into his room, just now, to do it up,
she found him lying on the bed, with his boots and spurs on, and his
overcoat spread over the foot of the counterpane, to keep it clean. So
she told me; and I went into the room, thinking there might be
something wrong with him; but he's all right, only sleeping like the
dead."

"I'm very glad to hear it. He's going to spend the day with the
Pritchards. However, I must get my buggy and dodge over to the railway
station, to wait on Mr Lascelles."

In another couple of hours I was conveying that capable salesman to
Diggora; whilst, as a matter of course, all the other participators in
this little episode continued to employ themselves in activities
suitable to their several endowments. And so closes a glimpse, a mere
momentary peep, into the vast and ageless volume of human
insignificance.



THE END



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